A  VICTORIOUS 
DEFEAT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


VICTORIOUS    DEFEAT 


Hoinonce 


BY  WOLCOTT   BALESTIER 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 
HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN    SQUARE 

1886 


Copyright,  1885,  by  WOLCOTT  BALESTIER. 


All  rights  reserved. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"'One  of  our  ordinances  forbids  the  marriage  of  a  members 

of  the  society  with  a  stranger;  another,  clandestine  be- 1  Frontispiece 
trolkals"' j 

PAGE 

"  '  Conrad,  you  mean  more  /' " faces    92 

"For  a  motnent  she  stood  quite  still,  in  sad  musing'1''  ...      "      114 
" March  -waited a  weary  time" "      136 

"  Mr,  Keator  stood,  with  his  head  bared,  gazing  at  a  cloud  of 

dust" "      158 

"  Kneeling  before  his  chair,  the  harassed  minister  prayed  fer 
vently  for  strength'1''  "  242 

"  The  old  watchman  faced  slowly  by  them,  crying,  as  he  bade 
them  a  merry  Christmas:  'Hear,  brethren,  hear!  The 
hour  of  nine  is  come  !  Keep  pure  each  heart,  and  chasten 
every  home!'1'''' "  252 

"  The  minister  crouched  forward,  alone  with  his  conscience 

and  his  God " "      336 


2062167 


A    VICTORIOUS    DEFEAT. 


CHAPTER   I. 

IN  the  uncertain  glory  of  a  failing  April  day,  Owen 
March  stood  before  a  door  in  the  village  of  Judea,  and 
let  fall  its  knocker.  His  imagination,  which  went  for 
ward  with  a  vague  interest,  as  he  rapped,  to  meet  those 
with  whom  the  opening  of  the  door  would  make  him 
acquainted,  stood  still  with  a  mild  shock  when  no  foot 
steps  answered  his  summons.  But  he  lifted  the  reclin 
ing  lamb  again  quite  patiently,  and  waited  once  more 
for  a  response.  As  it  did  not  come,  he  let  his  eyes  wan 
der  down  the  street  up  which  he  had  just  come.  It 
was  a  thoroughfare  full  of  entertainment  for  one  who 
saw  it  for  the  first  time.  March  regarded  it  attentively 
for  some  minutes,  during  which  he  once  more  caused 
the  little  brass  figure  to  make  gentle  inquiry  of  the 
dilatoriness  of  the  house's  inmates.  When  this  knock 
also  proved  fruitless,  he  turned  his  glance  toward  the 
garden,  endeavoring  to  bask  beneath  him  in  the  stingy 
sunlight.  As  he  looked,  he  was  aware  that  the  solitude 
was  abruptly  peopled.  A  young  girl  emerged  from  an 
arbor  which  he  could  see  among  the  bare  shrubs  sur- 


4  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

rounding  it  in  the  midst  of  the  enclosure.  He  had 
time  to  observe  her  as  she  came,  for  she  often  stooped 
to  pluck  some  early  spring  flower,  and  did  not  perceive 
him.  She  was  compactly  and  rather  largely  framed. 
Her  face,  as  it  showed  itself  to  him,  in  unconscious  re- 
•  pose,  was  possessed  by  a  certain  dignity  and  serious 
ness,  touched  with  a  curious  grace.  Its  lines  were 
strikingly  regular;  in  her  fair  full  checks  a  faint  color 
showed.  The  pensive  calm  that  March  felt  in  her  ex 
pression  may  have  been  partly  the  result  of  her  un 
usual  dress,  for  her  hair  was  entirely  concealed  beneath 
a  close-fitting  white  coif,  a  stainless  neckerchief  was 
crossed  upon  her  breast,  and  she  was  perfectly  simply 
attired  in  a  gown  of  bluish  gray.  This  dress,  which 
touches  the  most  indifferent  form  with  a  neutral  shadow 
of  beauty,  illumined  this  girl  with  a  singular  fairness. 
March  at  once  guessed  that  it  was  the  Moravian  costume, 
but  if  the  figure  moving  toward  him  was,  as  he  sup 
posed,  Dr.  Van  Cleef's  daughter,  he  was  surprised  to 
see  her  in  this  attire.  He  would  not  have  known  to 
what  to  refer  his  impression  that  he  should  find  this 
young  lady,  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much,  habited  in 
altogether  the  worldly  way  ;  probably,  however,  it  had 
been  merely  an  inference  from  the  ample  suggestions 
which  his  cousin,  Frederick  Lincoln,  had  let  fall  touch 
ing  her  character.  March  had  the  sense  of  tearing  up 
a  foolish  mental  photograph  as  she  came  nearer.  The 
original  was  hopelessly  different,  but  it  was  not  a  dis 
appointing  difference.  When  she  bent  scarcely  a  dozen 
feet  from  him  to  pull  away  the  leaves  matted  upon  a 
bed  of  crocuses,  still  not  observing  him,  he  experienced 
a  humorous  feeling  of  more  absolute  neglect  than  the 
silence  of  the  house  had  given  him.  But  in  a  moment 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  5 

she  raised  her  clear,  serene  eyes,  and  encountered  his 
waiting  smile.  Her  color  deepened  for  an  inappreciable 
moment,  and  she  halted  suddenly,  with  the  damp  leaves 
in  her  hand.  She  was  quite  tall,  but  all  her  motions 
were  graceful.  The  little  gesture  with  which  she  held 
the  leaves  away  from  her  seemed  to  him  indescribably 
pretty. 

"  My  father  is  visiting  a  patient  at  a  distance,  if  you 
wished  to  see  him,"  she  said,  after  a  moment.  "  But 
he  will  be  back  soon.  I  hope  you  have  not  been  kept 
waiting  long." 

"  I've  done  very  well,"  answered  March,  glancing 
down  at  her  where  she  stood  in  the  garden  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  high  stoop.  "It  is  very  good  of  you 
to  live  in  so  interesting  a  village,  Miss  Van  Clcef." 

O  O      " 

She  looked  up  with  a  fresh  light  in  her  sensitive  eyes. 
They  seemed  to  be  groping  for  a  clew  to  the  easy  con 
fidence  of  the  young  stranger  before  her.  As  she 
glanced  at  him  with  keen,  quiet  regard,  a  sudden 
thought  appeared  to  pass  through  her  mind,  for  she 
dropped  the  leaves  and  moved  quickly  toward  him. 

But  March  had  already  said,  "  You  are  going  to  tell 
me  that  I  have  the  advantage  of  you.  I  don't  mean  to 
keep  it,  however.  I  am " 

"Pardon   me,"  she  interrupted  ;  "I  am  very  stupid. 
I  think  I  need  not  trouble  you  to  tell  me.     You  are — 
She   paused.     "Are  you   not — ?     Perhaps    I   venture. 
It  may  not  be — "     She  hesitated  again,  and  seemed  to 
be  ploughing  up  her  memories. 

March  stood  on  the  porch  above,  smilingly  awaiting 
her  conclusion,  and  she  glanced  up  at  him  with  inter 
rogative  archness,  as  she  said,  "  Yet  it  must  be,"  with  a 
firmness  which  decided  nothing.  "No;  I'll  not  vent- 


6  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

urc  it."  She  gave  a  little,  laughing  sigh,  looking  in 
study  at  the  foot  with  which  she  corrected  a  wandering 
crocus  bloom. 

"But  you  guess  rightly." 

"  Ah,  how  can  you  say  ?  You  might  be  a  dozen  dif 
ferent  persons." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  March,  with  enjoyment. 
"  Do  you  think  I  am  ? " 

"  I  know  a  thousand  persons  who  you  are  not,"  she 
urged,  with  a  conscious  pleasure  in  the  repartee. 

Was  this  bright  illogic  issuing  from  a  young  woman 
arrayed  in  plain  gray  and  wearing  a  nun-like  cap  ? 
March  asked  himself.  "  There  are  unquestionably 
billions,  if  wre  may  believe  the  census,"  he  returned. 
"The  thought  overwhelms  one  with  a  sense  of  insig 
nificance.  I  hesitate  to  introduce  so  small  a  unit  :  it 
seems  a  little  like  the  presumption  of  coming  forward 
with  a  minority  report." 

"  Pray  do,  sir  !"  she  said  with  a  sudden  withdrawing, 
born  of  the  saving  apprehension  that  she  might  indeed 
be  as  mistaken  as  she  seemed  to  fear. 

"  Must  I  abet  your  doubts  ?  I  am  Owen  March. 
Miss  Van  Cleef,  and  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  letter  to  your 
father." 

"From  Lady  Amprey  ?  Then  I  was  right.  We  are 
very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  March.  Your  credentials 
have  preceded  you.  Lady  Amprey  wrote  us,  and  we 
have  been  looking  for  your  coming."  She  ended  with 
a  frank  smile  and  put  forth  her  hand,  an  amicable 
token,  which  March  hastened  to  accept  by  descending 
the  steps  and  placing  himself  beside  her. 

"  I  ought  to  invite  you  into  the  house,  I  suppose,  Mr. 
March  ;  but  I  credit  you  with  a  preference  for  this 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT,  7 

pleasant  air.  Perhaps  you  don't  think  it  pleasant,  but 
it  is — at  least  for  us.  The  sun  is  not  a  perfectly  amiable 
body  with  us,  but  it  has  its  humane  impulses,  and  this 
is  the  result  of  one  of  them." 

She  spoke  of  the  chagrin  which  her  father  would 
feel  that  he  should  be  absent  at  the  time  of  his  arrival, 
and  then,  as  they  strolled  into  one  of  the  errant  and 
unrelated  paths,  "  Lady  Amprey  seemed  very  sweet," 
she  exclaimed,  "  when  she  came  to  visit  us  in  New 
York.  I  was  quite  young,  and  she  was  different — yes. 
But  she  had  real  charm,  I  am  sure.  She  was  very 
gentle,  and  courteous  and  fine,"  she  mused,  with  a  sigh, 
which  was  not  envious,  but  which  March  thought  might 
be  called  emulative. 

"Lady  Amprey  is  extremely  agreeable,"  he  said, 
aloud.  "  I  trust  you  will  not  think  her  less  so  when 
you  find  to  what  she  has  exposed  you." 

"  Yourself  ?  "  inquired  Constance,  with  a  mysterious 
smile.  "  Ah,  we  shall  see  !  " 

March's  amiable  opinion  of  Lady  Amprey  was  of  old 
standing.  It  was  not  due  to  the  shooting  which  she 
had  been  able  to  offer  him  when  he  spent  his  Eton  and 
his  Oxford  vacations  with  her  ;  but  the  shooting  was 
very  good.  His  regard  for  her  was  entirely  the  prod 
uct  of  her  own  admirable  qualities.  She  was  a  widow 
and  she  was  forty;  but  she  had  the  vivacity  of  youth. 
Her  attitude  toward  him  was  that  of  a  sprightly  young 
aunt.  She  was  in  fact  a  cousin  of  high  attenuation  to 
some  people  who  were  cousins  of  his.  Her  relation 
ship  with  Dr.  Van  Cleef  was  upon  the  other  side,  and 
did  not  connect  him  with  March  in  the  remotest  de 
gree.  But  when  she  found  that  he  was  going  to 
America,  and  especially  that  he  was  likely  to  visit  Dr. 


8  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Van  Clcef  upon  some  particularly  disagreeable  busi 
ness,  she  made  haste  to  give  him  a  letter  to  her  rela 
tive.  March  had  left  England  rather  suddenly,  or  he 
would  have  bidden  farewell  to  Lady  Amprey  in  per 
son.  As  it  was  he  had  written  her  upon  the  eve  of  his 
departure,  telling  her  that  lie  had  been  asked  to  go  out 
to  explore  the  promising  colonies  recently  forfeited  by 
His  Majesty  for  a  certain  company  of  young  men  of 
his  acquaintance  who  had  been  led  to  think  of  immi 
grating  to  them.  They  were  very  good  fellows,  with 
very  small  fortunes  he  said,  and  he  intimated  that  he 
might  join  them  if  he  found  the  prospect  favorable. 
Lady  Amprey  was  not  surprised.  Those  who  reasoned 
only  from  a  knowledge  of  Owen  March's  position  were 
amazed  ;  but  Lady  Amprey  had  known  him,  since  his 
father,  Sir  John,  had  sent  him  as  a  boy  from  one  of  the 
West  Indies,  of  which  he  was  Governor,  to  Eton  ;  and 
she  had  perceived  long  ago  that  his  aims  and  theories 
were  as  far  as  possible  from  those  common  at  the  time 
to  the  second  sons  of  baronets.  She  was  aware  that  he 
kept  a  particularly  warm  place  in  his  heart  for  Amer 
ica,  and  she  had  admonished  Sir  John  early  in  her  ac 
quaintance  with  his  son  that  he  would  some  day  make 
an  American  of  himself.  She  added  that  it  was  rea 
sonable  to  expect  something  of  the  sort,  for  one's 
mother  was  not  a  native  of  the  colonies  for  nothing. 
This  mild  pleasantry  was  intended  for  Sir  John,  who 
in  marrying  an  American  girl  with  whom  he  became 
acquainted  in  one  of  his  numerous  voyages  to  the 
United  States,  had  done  an  undeniably  peculiar  thing. 
It  was  a  very  successful  and  charming  marriage,  as 
was  admitted  on  all  sides  when  the  county  families,  on 
the  return  of  the  pair  to  England,  called  upon  the  high- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  9 

bred  woman  whom  Sir  John  had  made  his  wife,  and 
saw  the  two  together  ;  but  this  was  easily  accounted 
for  when  it  was  remembered  that  in  fact  her  father  had 
been  born  in  England,  and  of  an  irreproachable  family. 
She  was  apparently  American  enough,  however,  to  be 
stow  upon  her  son  some  strikingly  un-English  tenden 
cies,  and  these  had  exhibited  themselves  so  clearly  to 
Lucy  Amprey,  while  he  was  still  in  his  teens,  that  she 
was  prepared  for  almost  anything  which  he  might  do. 
This  plan  of  colonization  was  quite  in  the  direction  of 
her  previsions,  and  by  so  much  grateful  to  her  pro 
phetic  soul.  But  the  satisfaction  of  being  able  to  say, 
"  I  told  you  so,"  which  at  its  best  Avas  adulterated  with 
regret  for  his  departure,  was  almost  entirely  alloy  when 
she  came  to  the  postscript  of  his  letter.  "  I  have  been 
offered,"  he  wrote,  "  at  the  last  moment,  quite  without 
warning,  the  position  of  correspondent  of  the  Republic 
in  America.  It  is,  you  know,  the  single  newspaper 
champion  of  the  United  States  on  this  side,  and  you 
can  understand  that  I  shall  be  glad  to  say  my  say  in  it. 
Over  here  we  don't  understand  the  people  who  have 
grown  away  from  us  across  the  water.  I  say  we,  hop 
ing  that  my  fancies  about  them  may  be  sufficiently 
justified  when  I  reach  there  to  say  You  ;  but  I  am  at 
least  anxious  to  comprehend  and  know  them  which 
comes  nearer  explaining  the  Republic's  choice  of  me 
than  anything  else  perhaps.  But  it  doesn't  explain  it. 
I  have  a  suspicion  that  you  are  unconsciously  the  ex 
planation.  You  know  how  you  have  been  accustomed 
to  repeat  my  mutterings  against  the  corn-laws,  and 
some  other  things  which  are  making  our  dear  England 
an  undesirable  place  of  residence,  as  a  kind  of  joke. 
Perhaps  the  editor  of  the  Republic  has  taken  them  seri- 


io  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

ously  ;  though  it  is  hard  to  fancy  how  a  man  whom  the 
Government  prefers  should  usually  read  his  seditious 
journal  behind  prison  bars  can  be  in  the  way  of  hear 
ing  Lady  Amprey's  gossip. 

"  I  imagine  that,  in  fact,  he  fixed  upon  me  in  despera 
tion,  because  he  could  not  at  the  moment  get  out  of  his 
prison  to  find  any  one  else.  The  position  is  at  present 
held  by  a  doctor  in  Judea,  a  Moravian  settlement  in 
Pennsylvania — Dr.  Van  Cleef — a  young  man,  I  suppose, 
who  finds  that  a  growing  practice  leaves  little  time  for 
musing  on  paper.  Well,  /  shall  have  time  ;  for,  after 
leaving  New  York,  where  my  mother's  people  are,  I 
shan't  know  a  soul  in  the  country,  and,  with  the  best 
intentions,  I  can  hardly  do  much  exploring  for  my  in 
tending  colonists  in  the  long  evenings.  Somehow  I 
fancy  the  evenings  will  be  very  long  over  there." 

Lady  Amprey's  feelings  upon  perusing  this  would  not 
have  been  guessed  by  a  reader  of  the  letter  of  introduc 
tion  to  her  kinsman  which  she  immediately  wrote  and 
dispatched  to  March.  She  was  entirely  silent  as  to  the 
position  and  the  appointment,  devoting  herself  consci 
entiously  to  the  praise  of  March.  But  her  sentiments 
were  made  plain  in  the  enclosure  to  the  young  man 
himself. 

"It  is  very  nice  of  them  to  appoint  you,"  she  wrote, 
after  a  very  sparing  use  of  her  right  to  impute  to  her 
self  the  art  of  divination,  upon  his  fulfilment  of  her 
prophecy,  "  but  your  young  doctor  chances  to  be  a 
man  of  nearly  seventy,  and  my  cousin.  Since  it  must 
be  some  one,  it  may  altogether  best  be  you,  but  I  could 
wrish  you  were  to  displace  a  younger  and  less  charming 
man.  You  will  say  that  I  am  prejudiced  by  kinship. 
But  Dr.  Van  Cleef  is  at  least  my  tenth  cousin,  if  there  is 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  n 

such  a  thing  ;  and,  if  it  were  true,  you  ought  to  be  the 
last  man  to  complain  of  my  sense  of  the  ties  of  consan 
guinity.  He  is  such  a  fine  old  gentleman  as  I  fancy 
you  will  scarcely  believe  they  make  across  the  water  ; 
and  he  has  an  interesting  daughter.  Be  careful  that 
you  don't  fall  in  love  with  her.  It's  true  I  saw  her 
several  years  ago,  and  there  is  no  telling  what  she  may 
have  blossomed  into.  But  it  can't  be  anything  disa 
greeable.  I've  seldom  met  any  one  who  seemed  to 
understand  herself  better.  She  knows  precisely  whither 
she  is  going.  Pray  see  to  it  that  you  do  ! 

"  I  repeat,  they  are  charming  people — for  Americans, 
extraordinarily  so.  My  distant  cousinship — the  mother's 
branch,  of  course — was  a  license  to  perfect  openness, 
and  in  the  course  of  my  visit,  which  I  assure  you  \vas 
not  brief,  I  should  have  discovered  any  ugly  little 
angles,  if  they  had  any.  But  they  haven't. 

"Adieu,  my  dear  boy ;  I  envy  you  the  prospect  of  see 
ing  people  without  angles.  So  many  on  my  calling  list 
are  constantly  tempting  me  to  murmur,  '  The  square  of 
the  hypotenuse  of  a  right  angled  triangle  is  equal  to  the 
ium  of  the  squares  of  the  other  two  sides.'  Is  that  it  ? 
"Sincerely,  LUCY  AMPREY." 

Lady  Amprey's  light-hearted  plaint  reached  March 
just  before  he  set  sail,  and  there  was  no  time  to  assure  her 
that  of  course  he  should  not  displace  her  kinsman. 
There  was  not  even  so  much  time  as  would  have  ena 
bled  him  to  inform  the  Republic  of  his  determination. 
But  when,  six  weeks  later,  he  reached  New  York,  he 
put  both  Lady  Amprey  and  the  imprisoned  editor  of 
the  Republic  into  possession  of  his  intentions.  The  voy 
age,  whose  leisure  had  given  opportunity  for  a  great 


12  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

deal  of  reflection,  had  left  him  with  many  hours  which 
he  could  only  devote  to  a  most  active  regret  for  the 
impulse  which  had  led  him  to  accept  a  post  which  was 
unquestionably  very  dear  to  an  old  man.  He  read  this 
between  the  lines  of  Lady  Amprey's  letter,  and  his  only 
wish  was  that  he  had  read  it  between  the  lines  of  the 
proposal  of  the  Republic's  editor. 

He  was  quite  conscious  that  he  \vas  surrendering  an 
opportunity — one  which  meant  more  perhaps  to  a 
young  man  of  his  aims  and  ideas  than  it  would  have 
meant  to  almost  any  one  else — but  to  give  it  up  was 
immensely  less  costly  than  to  keep  it.  It  was  not  at  all 
a  matter  of  philanthropy,  or  of  sentimental  kindness  ; 
nor  had  it  anything  in  common  with  the  unlicensed  ben 
evolence  which  is  generous  a  great  many  times  a  week 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  itself  in  the  act.  He  simply 
could  not  do  it ;  and  having  yielded  his  chance  he  spent 
no  mourning  upon  it.  March  had  long  ago  investigated 
himself,  had  taken  account  of  life,  and  the  outlook  had 
instructed  him  that  the  reasonable  thing  was  to  be  happy. 

He  had  many  letters  to  write  on  his  arrival  in  New 
York  besides  those  already  named.  In  his  capacity  of 
spyer-out  of  this  land  of  promise,  he  wras,  of  course, 
obliged  to  render  an  early  account  of  his  impressions 
of  its  chief  city  ;  and  outside  the  little  company  whose 
agent  he  was,  several  of  his  friends  (sons  of  noblemen 
in  all  degrees  after  the  first),  who  entertained  a  curi 
osity  about  America,  had  asked  him  to  send  them  his 
earliest  ideas  regarding  it,  as  if  they  were  commission 
ing  him  to  dispatch  a  buffalo  robe  by  return  packet. 
The  only  letter  which  he  wrote  for  his  own  satisfaction 
was  to  his  father.  To  him  March  felt  that  he  owed  an 
especial  debt,  beyond  that  larger  obligation  which  he 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  13 

had  always  eagerly  recognized,  for  the  extreme  reason 
ableness  of  his  attitude  upon  the  question  of  this 
American  tour.  He  was  sensible  that  his  republican 
theories,  however  mild  they  might  appear  to  himself, 
who  had  the  advantage  of  knowing  how  much  more 
radical  they  once  had  been,  must  seem  to  plough  dan 
gerously  deep  to  his  dear  father's  delightfully  confident 
Toryism.  He  felt  that  an  English  baronet  may  fairly 
have  his  feelings  upon  his  second  son's  announcement 
of  his  belief  that  the  United  States  exemplifies  the  most 
excellent  form  of  government  in  the  world  ;  and  he  was 
sincerely  obliged  to  him  that  he  had  not  attempted  to 
pare  his  squareness  down  to  roundness,  or  in  any  other 
way,  except,  as  Sir  John  said,  "  by  giving  him  his  head," 
to  change  his  tendencies.  March  knew  that  his  private 
word  to  himself  had  been  that  if  one's  son  could  not  do 
as  one  desired,  it  was  the  next  lower  point  of  felicity  to 
Avish  what  one's  son  desired,  and  this  was  so  admirably 
fair  and  generous  that  March  had  several  times  almost 
resolved  to  give  up  the  voyage  and  his  plans  as  a 
sacrifice  to  such  moderation.  But  it  had  ended  in  his 
going ;  and  he  was  now  writing  his  father  some  of  the 
things  which  he  had  found  difficult  to  say,  in  praise  of 
his  kindness. 

His  departure  had  indeed  caused  both  his  father  and 
mother  real  distress,  not  so  much  from  dislike  of  the 
journey  itself,  as  from  dread  of  its  consequences.  If  it 
should  result  in  his  permanent  residence  in  the 
country  his  mother's  stout  patriotism  gave  her  no  com 
fort  in  the  prospect,  and  to  his  father's  royal  ism  it 
was  an  inexpressibly  painful  contingency.  It  would 
have  been  simply  shocking  to  both  of  them  if  they  had 
not,  as  it  were,  dwelt  with  the  possibility  for  several 


14  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

years  before  it  came  so  near.  March's  wishes  were 
obvious  enough  when  he  returned  from  Heidelberg  ; 
but  he  had  not  pressed  them.  He  had  been  content  to 
look  about  him  and  measure  the  world  and  himself  for 
a  time  ;  for  he  had  become  imbued  in  Germany  with 
a  certain  disrespect  for  the  opinions  of  the  moment, 
since  he  was  constantly  finding  them  in  his  young 
man's  state  of  flux,  discredited  by  the  light  which  he 
got  from  the  next. 

His  feelings  about  America  had  certainly  passed 
through  more  than  one  stage  within  his  memory.  As  a 
boy,  before  he  left  the  West  Indies  where  he  had  been 
born,  he  had  been  much  attracted  to  the  country  of  his 
mother.  The  nation  then  trembling  out  of  its  swad 
dling  clothes  a  few  hundred  miles  from  him,  was  unde^ 
niably  full  of  interest  to  the  onlooker.  That  onlooker 
being  a  thoughtful  and  imaginative  boy,  with  an  early 
exhibited  taste  for  the  problems  of  government,  it  is 
intelligible  that  a  comparatively  faint  zephyr  should 
blow  the  latent  Americanism  in  his  blood  into  an  obsti 
nate  blaze.  This  atmospheric  impulse  was  furnished 
him  in  unnecessary  vigor,  when,  after  a  season  spent 
at  Eton,  and  a  longer  one  at  Oxford,  he  opened  his 
mind  to  the  subtleties  of  German  thinking  at  Heidel 
berg.  It  was,  to  speak  accurately,  not  a  direct  impulse 
Avhich  was  imparted  to  him  ;  there  were  certain  limit 
ations  touching  the  inculcation  of  republicanism  in 
German  universities  at  this  time.  But  the  tone  of 
the  place  was  distinctly  liberal ;  a  breeze  of  truth 
seemed  always  to  be  blowing  through  its  halls,  expel 
ling  cobwebs  and  rending  fallacies  ;  and  the  doors  of 
one's  intelligence  must  have  been  barred  with  much 
care  to  have  avoided  the  message. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  15 

March,  whose  openness  was  as  the  openness  of  the 
honeycomb,  found  himself  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the 
influence  of  this  missionary  and  informing  breeze.  The 
study  of  Political  Science,  then  struggling  toward  its 
own,  gave  the  special  impetus  which  was  lacking  to  his 
feelings,  and  made  him  presently  a  brilliantly  red  repub 
lican.  In  the  further  time  that  he  spent  at  Heidelberg 
his  ideas  were  naturally  modified  by  much  the  same  san 
ative  power  which  had  equipped  him  with  his  theories, 
and  he  returned  to  England  and  took  up  his  residence 
with  his  father,  who  had  laid  aside  the  glories  of  the 
gubernatorial  function,  a  very  hearty  republican,  in 
deed,  but  one  of  a  much  less  inflamed  type  than  he  had 
once  liked  to  believe  himself. 

This  pale  form  of  faith,  however,  took  on,  it  may  be 
believed,  a  sufficiently  high  color,  to  his  father's  alarm, 
and  during  the  three  years  that  intervened  between  his 
return  to  England  and  his  departure  from  it,  his  opin 
ions  gave  the  baronet  considerable  anxiety.  He  held, 
in  the  ceurse  of  this  time,  many  memorable  conversa 
tions  with  his  son.  Owen  pretended  no  more  rever 
ence  than  he  felt  for  the  laws  and  institutions  of  his 
country,  which  made  possible  the  general  distress,  and 
the  threatening  bubblings  of  that  political  pot  which  at 
the  time  came  so  near  boiling  over.  But  he  tried  to 
treat  his  father's  prejudices  tenderly,  and  always  en 
deavored  to  put  his  revolutionary  sentiments  as  gently 
as  possible. 

"Ah,  father!  "  cried  he,  as  they  came  into  the  house 
one  day  after  one  of  the  walks  during  which  these  col 
loquies  usually  went  on,  "you  don't  know  what  a  mild 
radical  I  am.  Pray,  don't  think  me  a  Reign  of  Terror 
man,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I've  not  the  ghost  of  a 


1 6  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

wish  to  subvert  society;  I  find  it  much  too  charming 
an  institution.  And  in  a  general  division  of  property, 
I  don't  see  how  I  should  come  out  any  better  off. 
There  arc  worse  things,  perhaps,  than  being  the  young 
er  son  of  a  gentleman  who  has  the  fortune  to  own  such 
a  park  as  that" — he  indicated  the  beautiful  expanse  of 
turf  before  them  as  they  paused  on  the  steps — "  cer 
tainly  when  that  gentleman  has  the  uncommon  goodness 
to  be  Sir  John  March.  What  do  you  think,  father  ?  " 
laughed  the  young  republican,  as  he  took  the  old  man 
by  both  his  shoulders,  and  forced  him  to  give  back  his 
smile.  The  father's  glance  dwelt  admiringly  on  his  son's 
stahvart  form. 

"  I  think  you  arc  a  much  better  son  than  royalist, 
my  dear  boy." 

Once,  when  March  had  been  speaking  of  the  unwis 
dom  of  a  form  of  government  "  under  which  the  poor 
are  without  a  vote,  and  in  the  best  circumstances  can 
hardly  own  the  soil,  which  they  improve  for  others  from 
year  to  year,"  Sir  John  rejoined:  "There  is  something 
in  what  you  say.  I  have  often  thought  that  matters 
might  be  improved.  But  I  don't  go  quite  so  far.  I 
don't  know  whether  one  of  the  results  of  your  obser 
vation  may  have  been  that  I  am  myself  one  of  the 
'others,'  as  you  call  them.  What  if  I  say  that  I  weakly 
prefer  to  be  one  of  them  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  that  I  trust  you  will  not  live  to  see 
anything  that  you  would  not  like,  dear  father  ! " 

It  has  been  said  that  Lady  March,  as  well  as  her  hus 
band,  had  in  a  manner  lived  for  some  time  with  the  pos 
sibility  of  exactly  the  event  which  had  now  occurred ; 
but  she  had,  of  course,  held  no  such  talks  as  Sir  John 
with  Owen,  and  when  her  son's  intention  was  first  an- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  17 

nounced  to  her,  the  philosophy  with  which  she  had 
tried  to  fortify  herself  in  advance  resolved  itself  simply 
into  tears.  She  wondered  why  she  had  not  long  ago 
perceived  how  certain  it  was  ;  but  it  was,  perhaps,  best 
that  she  had  not  known,  for  surely  only  those  malevo 
lent  spirits  who  hope  one  day  to  rule  the  world  by  some 
such  code  as  prevails  in  Old  Ladies'  Homes  can  wish 
to  make  a  mother's  ideas  of  her  son  include  the.  ob 
vious. 

When  Lady  March  had  conquered  the  bit  of  weak 
ness  with  which  she  had  met  the  first  intelligence  of 
her  son's  deplorable  plan,  she  accepted  it  with  a  kind 
of  equanimity.  After  all,  she  told  herself,  she  was  glad 
to  have  Owen  visit  her  native  land,  if  it  did  not  end  in 
his  remaining  there ;  and  she  was  soon  going  about 
with  a  fair  counterfeit  of  cheerfulness,  and  setting  her 
self  to  smooth  her  son's  path  among  her  countrymen,  as 
far  as  letters  of  introduction,  and  the  like  kindly  docu 
ments,  could  accomplish  that  end. 

To  March,  the  most  fruitful  of  these  amiable  papers 
was  that  which  made  him  known  to  his  cousin,  Fred 
erick  Lincoln,  and  his  agreeable  mother,  Lady  March's 
sister.  They  lived  in  one  of  the  most  perfect  products 
of  the  colonial  idea  in  architecture  which  March  found 
in  New  York.  The  house  was  generously  made,  and 
full  of  a  dignity  and  simplicity  of  its  own.  Through 
its  long  windows  it  looked  upon  the  Battery  and  the 
beautiful  prospect  beyond,  and  in  the  autumn  days 
March  often  sat  upon  the  balcony,  with  his  aunt  and 
her  daughters — for  Lincoln  had  several  sisters — and 
watched  the  concourse  of  courtly  men  beneath  them, 
who,  having  accomplished  the  deliberate  business  of 
the  day  in  Wall  and  South,  in  Pine  and  Cedar  Streets, 


i8  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

and  Maiden  Lane,  joined  their  wives  and  daughters  in 
walking  in  the  green  park.  The  movement  up  town 
had  begun,  and  had  carried  fashion  as  far  as  Park 
Place  ;  but  Mrs.  Schuyler  Lincoln  was  one  of  the  in 
heritors  of  the  sagacious  tradition  that  a  house  facing 
the  Batter)',  the  still  uncheapened  bay,  and  the  noble 
outlook  beyond,  was  the  great  privilege. 

The  two  young  men  had  met  as  boys  on  the  island, 
under  the  mild  rule  of  March's  father  ;  and  Lincoln 
pretended  to  remember  March  as  an  uncommonly  dis 
agreeable  child.  This  fortunately  did  not  prevent  him 
from  being  very  agreeable  to  his  cousin,  and  March  in 
a  short  time  said  to  himself  that  his  cousin  was  an  al 
together  charming  companion.  As  he  knew  every 
one,  he  was  acquainted,  March  presently  found,  with 
the  Van  Cleefs,  and  was  surprised  to  know  that  his 
cousin  had  a  like  pleasure  in  prospect. 

"I  used  to  know  them,"  he  said,  "extremely  well. 
That  was  during  Mrs.  Van  Cleefs  life-time,  of  course, 
After  that  they  moved  to — what's  the  name  of  the  place 
— Jerusalem — Jericho  ?" 

"  Judea  ?"  asked  March. 

"Judea;  and  Dr.  Van  Cleef  is  practising  his  pro 
fession  there.  He  was  never  thoroughly  happy  here,  I 
often  fancied.  He  was  a  kind  of  apostate,  I  believe. 
The  epithet  sounds  harsh,  doesn't  it  ?  but  it  means  very 
little.  He  was  a  Moravian,  who  wanted  a  broader  field  ; 
he  always  seemed  attached  to  his  profession,  at  all 
events,  and  I  suppose  he  felt  he  might  accomplish  more 
for  others  and  himself  outside  the  society  village.  Of 
course,  that  was  scarcely  consistent  with  full  member 
ship  in  their  organization,  so  he  simply  separated  from 
them  and  came  here.  He  was  our  best  physician,  my 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  19 

mother  says  ;  she  wept  at  his  departure.  For  my  part, 
it  did  not  increase  my  personal  happiness.  I  had  a 
great  liking  for  him.  He  had  a  curious  daughter,  who 
used  to  interest  me.  She  was  very  young  when  she 
left  New  York,  and  I've  often  wondered  how  she 
turned  out.  I  never  knew  a  more  individual  girl. 
She  was  not  so  pretty  ;  that  was  not  her  distinction: 
but  you  felt  her  presence  when  she  was  a  mere  child. 
She  bore  herself  uncommonly  well ;  and  she  had  such 
aspirations.  Poor  little  girl !  They  reached  to  the 
clouds.  I  used  to  be  afraid  for  the  time  that  should 
shatter  them.  I  wonder  where  they  are  now — perhaps 
still  climbing.  You  ought  to  know  her.  Excuse  me,  I 
forget,  you  will.  I  congratulate  you,  then.  She  was  a 
little  princess  at  seventeen.  Fancy  what  she  must  be 
now." 

"A  queen,  probably." 

"  It's  not  so  impossible.  I  should  like  very  well  to 
know ;  I  wish  I  were  going  with  you  to  Judea,"  said 
the  young  man,  musingly. 

"  I  wish  you  were,"  exclaimed  March,  heartily. 

Lincoln  did  not  go  with  him  to  Judea,  but  he  ar 
ranged  to  meet  him  there  if  the  time  of  his  visit  should 
coincide  with  hip  yearly  vacation — a  thing  of  highly 
variable  occurrence  and  the  most  elastic  duration.  One 
chance  and  another  pushed  Judea  toward  the  bottom 
of  March's  list,  and  it  was  spring  before  he  reached  it. 
Meanwhile,  he  had  seen  the  United  States  as  thoroughly 
as  was  then  possible,  and  with  eager  and  increasing 
interest,  which  he  successfully  communicated  to  his 
transatlantic  audience.  It  vindicated  and  outran  all 
his  visions.  It  was  a  chrysalis  from  which  almost  any 
butterfly  might  be  expected  ;  and  when  he  had  at  last 


20  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

surveyed  it  all,  and  was  ready  to  make  his  journey  to 
Judea,  he  felt  himself  justified  in  asserting,  with  some 
positivencss,  to  those  who  waited  for  his  final  word 
across  the  water,  that  the  process  of  assisting  to  strip 
the  golden  cocoon  was  likely  to  prove  a  profitable  one. 
To  Judea  he  went  with  a  certain  curiosity  and  interest, 
roused  by  the  engaging  pictures  of  Lady  Amprey  and 
Lincoln.  He  went,  also,  with  something  infinitely  more 
valuable ;  for  the  assurance  of  the  editor  of  the  Republic, 
that  Dr.  Van  Cleef  should  not  be  disturbed  in  his 
position,  gave  him  a  freer  conscience. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THIS  young  Englishman,  walking  by  Constance's  side 
through  Dr.  Van  Cleef  s  garden,  would  certainly  have 
struck  a  Moravian  spectator,  if  there  had  chanced  to  be 
one,  as  a  supremely  unusual  figure,  for  many  reasons. 
But  he  would  have  engaged  the  attention  of  an  onlooker 
with  no  such  traditions  and  prejudices  as  a  Moravian's, 
for  his  height,  which  was  unusual,  and  his  strong  well- 
knit  frame,  gave  him,  taken  in  connection  with  his  ad 
mirable  bearing,  an  uncommonly  positive  presence. 
His  eyes  were  the  index  of  a  sincere  spirit,  but  they 
were  perhaps  not  notable  in  any  other  way,  unless  it  is 
worth  while  to  add  that  a  subtle  and  often  rather  irrel 
evant  humorous  twinkle  had  its  home  in  them.  His 
brown  hair  hung  loosely  about  his  head.  Doubtless  his 
face  was  not  handsome  ;  but  it  did  not  seem  improbable 
that  certain  persons  might  so  describe  it.  It  was,  at 
least,  distinctly  earnest,  and  its  firm  lines  were  drawn 
with  delicacy  and  security.  It  was  a  strikingly  genuine 
face. 

March's  dress  was  not  modish  ;  it  did  not  insist.  But 
he  was  very  well  dressed  indeed.  This  felicitous  point 
may  have  been  of  less  easy  maintenance,  in  those  days 
of  the  gradual  disappearance  of  ruffles  and  knee-breeches, 
than  it  is  found  in  this  year  of  grace  ;  at  all  events,  its 
effect  in  the  case  of  Owen  March  was  a  kind  of  dis 
tinction. 


22  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

The  garden  to  which  Constance  was  introducing 
him,  struck  him  as  extraordinary.  It  was  a  garden  of 
gardens.  Its  extent,  the  variety  of  its  exhibition,  and 
the  care  with  which  its  achievements  were  nurtured  and 
classified,  seemed  almost  professional.  Something  of 
this  he  communicated  to  his  companion.  "  Certainly," 
said  she;  "  it  is  my  father's  passion.  He  seeks  out  new 
species,  and  cares  for  the  old,  with  the  enthusiasm  which 
other  men  spend  upon  books,  and  violins,  and  butterflies, 
and  what  not." 

"  It's  a  pretty  enthusiasm." 

"  Is  it  not  ?  One  is  very  dull,  don't  you  think,  to  whom 
flowers  say  nothing  ?  But  there  is  very  little  now.  You 
should  see  it  in  summer.  I  hope  your  business  in  Amer 
ica  is  not  important.  Father  will  want  to  keep  you  un 
til  he  can  show  it  you." 

They  walked  on  through  the  walks,  thickly  bordered 
with  hedges  of  mock-orange,  which  had  less  stiffness 
than  they  wrear  in  gardens  whose  beds  are  laid  out  by 
triangulation.  They  came  upon  a  German  who  was  en 
gaged  in  loosing  the  earth  from  a  great  number  of  pots, 
and  planting  the  green  shoots  which  the  damp  clay  em 
braced  in  a  fallow  space  prepared  for  them.  With  this 
man  Miss  Van  Cleef  paused,  to  decide  a  horticultural 
problem  which  appeared  of  immediate  importance. 
As  they  went  on,  "  You  are  at  least  the  daughter  of 
an  enthusiast,"  commented  March.  "  One  might  al 
most  say  you  had  some  of  the  original  passion." 

"  Yes,  I  am  fond  of  it  all,"  admitted  Constance/'  and 
one  must  do  something.  You  may  have  observed  that 
we  are  not  richly  supplied  with  means  of  entertain 
ment,"  she  went  on  a  trifle  bitterly.  "  One  cannot  al 
ways  read  and  spin,  and  sew,  and — yes  the  garden  is 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  23 

a  great  resource.  I  scarcely  know  what  I  should  do 
without  it." 

The  paths  which  were  endless,  reminded  March  in 
their  frequent  doublings  and  windings  of  a  labyrinth  ; 
and  it  occurred  to  him,  that  accompanied  by  such  a 
companion,  that  ancient  form  of  puzzle  was  by  no  means 
without  its  excellent  qualities.  A  series  of  shrubs  re 
placed  the  graceful  hedge  as  they  came  into  the  more 
secluded  regions  of  the  garden,  and  before  a  rather  odd 
bush  among  these  March  presently  paused.  "  This  is 
not  an  American  shrub  ? " 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Constance.  "  Look  at  the  little 
label  in  the  ground  there.  There  are  a  great  many 
foreigners  ;  father  has  an  especial  fondness  for  them." 

"  It  is  a  Hollander,"  said  he,  bending  to  read  the 
neatly  inscribed  Latin  on  the  finger-length  of  pine  that 
stood  sentinel  before  the  shrub.  "  I  thought  I  remem 
bered  it.  It's  very  pretty  when  it  blossoms,  and  I  at 
tach  a  little  romance  to  it.  It  grows  in  the  meadows, 
near  the  dikes,  I  think.  The  romance  is  not  mine  ;  it 
belonged  with  the  shrub  to  a  young  Dutch  student, 
whom  I  knew  at  Heidelberg.  His  betrothed  was  a  trim 
little  Hollander,  who  lived  with  her  mother,  in  a  wretched 
sort  of  way,  up  in  some  unspeakably  lofty  rooms  at  the 
Hague.  She  loved  the  shrub  with  the  small  remnant 
of  heart  that  was  not  given  to  Hans  and  her  mother — • 
she  had  some  special  sentiment  about  it ;  it  was  their 
only  flower,  a  memory  of  the  country  abundance  they 
had  left,  and  that  sort  of  thing — and  when  she  died — 
it  was  very  sad  ;  she  had  gone  with  her  mother,  a  few 
stations  out,  with  their  pitiful  earnings  to  meet  Hans, 
who  was  coming  home  to  marry  her.  Only  her  mother 
and  a  few  others  were  saved.  When  she  died,  Hans 


24  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

claimed  the  shrub,  and  took  it  back  to  his  rooms  at 
Heidelberg,  and  watched  it  with  a  dogged  loyalty  and 
a  grim,  hard  sort  of  despair,  that  haunts  me  yet.  He 
went  himself,  after  a  while,  poor  fellow,  and  one  of  his 
friends  planted  the  shrub  above  him,  and  nursed  it  a 
little  from  time  to  time.  It  throve  wonderfully,  and 
bore  every  year  the  most  perfect  scarlet  blossom.  His 
friend  had  a  sentiment  about  it,  and  left  a  bit  of  endow 
ment  with  the  authorities  to  preserve  it  always,  I  be 
lieve.  I  don't  know  but  it's  living  yet." 

"  How  good  of  you,  Mr.  March  !  " 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was  I,"  asserted  he,  looking  up  from 
the  gravel  which  he  had  been  studying. 

"Ah,  but  you  can't  deny  it,"  she  returned,  smiling 
through  a  suspicious  film. 

A  firm,  slow  step  made  itself  heard  approaching  on 
the  path  behind  them,  and  both  turned.  A  gentleman 
whose  white  locks  were  shaded  by  a  gray  hat,  with  a 
far-reaching  brim,  and  who  carried  a  heavy  cane,  was 
advancing  toward  them. 

"Father,"  said  Constance,  going  to  him  as  he  came 
near,  and  taking  his  hand,  "this  is  Mr.  March." 

"Indeed!  You  are  very  welcome,  sir,"  said  the 
elder  gentleman,  bowing  in  the  manner  of  an  earlier 
day,  and  grasping  his  hand.  "  You  have  come  far  to  see 
us,  and  I  am  grieved  that  I  should  have  chanced  to  be 
away  at  the  time  of  your  arrival.  But  my  daughter — 
she  has  made  you  welcome,  I  trust.  Yes,  yes,"  he  said, 
stroking  her  hand,  as  she  stood  rather  proudly,  March 
fancied,  beside  him.  "Yes,  Constance  is  a  capital  sub 
stitute  ;  yes,  a  very  good  substitute,"  and  he  drew  her 
to  him  absently  and  kissed  her  forehead.  "Lady 
Amprey,  sir — is  she  quite  well  ?  and  your  father,  Sir 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  25 

John  ?  I  fancy  I  remember  seeing  him  once,  long 
ago — yes  thirty  years  since  now,  sir."  He  regarded 
March  meditatively,  as  he  stroked  his  close-shaven 
face.  "  You  are  one  of  the  Marchs  of  Devonshire  ? 
Yes,  yes,  so  I  thought,  so  I  thought."  He  sat  down 
suddenly  on  a  bench  near.  His  daughter  was  beside 
him  instantly.  "You  are  not  well,  father  !  " 

"Yes,  my  dear,  perfectly,  perfectly."  He  smiled  upon 
her,  however,  with  weary  eyes.  "A  little  fatigued,  that 
is  all." 

"  You  have  driven  too  far,"  exclaimed  she  compas 
sionately,  "you  must  not  do  it.  You  should  let  Dr. 
Click  take  these  outside  cases."  She  had  drawn  from 
his  pocket  his  handkerchief,  and  kneeling  by  his  side, 
was  touching  his  heated  forehead  with  it  as  she  spoke. 
"How  did  you  find  Christina's  baby?" 

"John  was  unduly  alarmed.    It  was  a  very  mild  attack." 

"And  he  let  you  drive  twenty  miles  for  nothing? 
Ah,  poor  father !  It  was  shameful  !  " 

March  was  standing  near,  drawing  his  gloves  thought 
fully  through  his  hands. 

"We  country  physicians  have  our  trials,  sir,"  said  Dr. 
Van  Cleef  addressing  him,  "yes,  yes,  wre  have  our 
trials."  He  seemed  to  muse  for  a  moment.  "  Come 
Constance,  dear,"  he  exclaimed  rising  deliberately  and 
throwing  back  his  head  as  if  to  cast  off  his  fatigue,  "it 
is  supper  time.  Go  in  and  say  to  Barbara  that  we  will 
sup  in  the  arbor  to-night  ;  and  let  your  aunt  know.  It 
will  be  warm  enough  I  think,  dear." 

It  had  been  one  of  those  gentle  days  which  occasion 
ally  brighten  the  sullen  Northern  spring,  and  the  sun 
was  bidding  the  earth  good-night  with  a  suavity  which 
it  had  not  used  since  the  last  October. 


26  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Constance  left  them,  and  the  doctor  motioned  the 
young  man  to  a  seat  on  the  bench,  and  he  sat  down  be 
side  him.  Each  of  his  companion's  expressions,  and 
the  smiles  with  which  he  emphasized  them,  seemed  to 
March  to  repeat,  "  You  are  very  welcome,  sir  ; "  and  as 
they  talked,  and  March  watched  the  figure  in  gray 
vanishing  up  the  path,  and  took  upon  his  face  the  warm 
light  of  the  setting  sun  playing  through  the  hedge  and 
budding  trees  and  shrubs,  he  felt  that  there  were  sev 
eral  facts  upon  which  he  might  fairly  congratulate  him 
self. 

Constance  came  out  to  the  table,  which  a  maid  ser 
vant  was  setting  in  the  arbor,  with  a  tall,  slight  lady  of  a 
certain  age,  dressed  in  the  garb  of  the  society,  who  was 
presently  made  known  to  March  as  Miss  Cynthia  Van 
Cleef,  the  doctor's  sister. 

"We  are  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  said  precisely  as 
they  were  introduced,  and  giving  his  hand  a  single 
sharp,  downward,  impulse,  quickly  released  it,  and 
folded  her  own  shrivelled  palms  about  her  slim  waist. 
During  the  meal  which  followed  she  remained  quite 
silent,  except  to  give  occasional  laconic  orders  to  the 
young  waitress,  who  seemed  to  stand  in  awe  of  her. 
Constance  took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  but 
it  was  clear  that  Miss  Cynthia  directed  the  domestic 
government. 

"  You  have  seen  my  garden,  sir,  at  least,  in  part  ?  " 
said  March's  entertainer  amiably,  as  they  sat  drinking 
their  tea  in  the  warm,  fading  light,  "Yes,  Constance,  I 
think,  is  fond  of  it  herself  ;  she  is  not  unwilling  to  show 
it." 

The  sun  bent  its  last  soft  rays  upon  the  four  persons 
gathered  about  the  homely  table,  and  stamped  their  long 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  27 

shadows  on  the  beaten  earth  floor,  and  beyond  through 
the  lattice  work  on  the  rich  brown  soil  of  a  newly  up 
turned  flower  bed.  The  hedge  of  silver  behind  which 
Constance  sat  scintillated  in  the  mellow  light,  and  the 
glassware  grew  pink  under  it.  Miss  Cynthia,  who  faced 
the  sun,  sat  defending  her  weak  blinking  little  eyes 
from  its  level  glory  with  one  thin  hand,  which  was  it 
self  transparently  pink  in  the  light. 

From  where  they  sat  they  could  see  most  of  the  vil 
lage  street.  The  house  to  which  this  garden  was  at 
tached,  bore  a  certain  family  resemblance  to  the  others, 
but  it  was  easily  the  handsomest  in  sight.  Four  tall 
chimneys  sought  the  air  above  it  like  exclamation 
points,  and  an  equal  number  of  buttresses  rose  mas 
sively  to  its  stone  flanks  as  if  to  emphasize  the  honest 
firmness  and  squareness  with  which  the  building  faced 
the  observer,  in  a  street  of  which  it  was  not  the  only 
notable  object.  The  houses  were  at  a  considerable 
distance  apart,  and  in  the  vacant  stillness  that  falls 
upon  most  villages  at  the  cessation  of  labor,  in  the 
next  hours  before  nightfall,  each  seemed  standing  in 
a  separate  silence.  The  occasional  sound  of  footsteps 
on  the  hard-beaten  earth  walks  scarcely  disturbed  the 
slumberous  quiet.  Two  noble  lines  of  maples  threw 
out  their  branches  over  the  roadway,  and  nodded  their 
vagrant  shoots  with  the  hinted  foliage  of  early  spring 
to  the  many-paned  windows.  The  larger  limbs  drooped 
in  sturdy  curves  upon  the  roofs  which  were  by  no 
means  the  least  striking  thing  in  the  street.  Those 
which  reached  the  eaves  by  an  uninterrupted  sweep 
turned  up  their  noses  at  this  point,  with  a  saucy 
flounce,  and  were  transfixed  in  perpetual  retrousse  ; 
others  more  decorously  surrendered  to  the  dwelling's 


28  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

front  a  portion  of  their  forms,  which  straightway  be 
came  concave  and  were  dotted  with  windows.  The 
least  fantastic  mode  in  house-tops  seemed  to  be  that 
angular  structure,  with  the  appearance  of  a  carpenter's 
rule  at  odds  with  itself,  known  as  the  "gambrel." 
From  all  the  dormer  window  gleamed,  propped  at  an 
guishing  inclines,  and  upon  occasion  lying  prone  along 
the  bhingles,  like  a  basking  alligator.  Most  of  the 
buildings  were  of  stone,  though  occasionally  one  was 
simply  framed  of  hewn  logs.  With  inscrutable  par 
simony,  in  the  midst  of  an  ample  region  of  open  land, 
all  were  placed  full  upon  the  street,  and  beside  each 
door  rose  a  flight  of  steps,  terminated  by  a  little  square 
of  flooring. 

"  I  don't  keep  the  garden  for  exhibition,"  said  Dr. 
Van  Cleef.  "  I  am  glad  that  any  one  who  cares  for 
flowers  should  see  it ;  but  its  design  is  a  perfectly  self 
ish  one,  sir."  His  beneficent  smile  belied  the  state 
ment.  "  I  am  content  to  admit  that  I  keep  it  up  for 
my  private  gratification.  That  is  not  a  laudable  ob 
ject,  you  will  say.  No,  it  would  not  look  well  in  a  text. 
But  at  a  certain  age,  a  man  must  try  to  get  along  with 
fewer  laudable  objects  ;  one  must  treat  one's  self  with  re 
spect,  even  indulge  one's  self  perhaps.  That  is  my  plan." 

"You  should  begin  to  carry  it  out,  father,"  said 
Constance;  "one  who  goes  out  of  his  way  to  assume 
others'  burdens,  and  drives  twenty  miles  to  remedy  an 
imaginary  complaint  is  hardly  doing  battle  for  the 
cause  of  selfishness." 

"  Well,  well ;  the  theory  holds  good  still.  I  was  speak 
ing  of  my  pleasures,  dear.  My  duties  are  a  different 
matter.  Do  you  happen  to  know  faz  Republic?"  he 
asked  of  March,  suddenly. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  29 

The  young  man  flushed.  "  The a  London  daily !  " 

stammered  he,  "certainly,  sir." 

"  That  is  one  of  my  indulgences.  You  know  they 
sympathize  with  us.  The  United  States  has  no  better 
friend.  Yes,  I  write  them — occasionally — with  some 
regularity,  I  may  say.  It  is  a  great  interest  for  me — 
yes,  yes,  quite  an  interest,"  continued  the  old  man 
absently,  rubbing  the  snowy  stubble  on  his  chin,  after 
a  habit  he  had.  "  I  have  an  intellectual  recreation  and 
a  physical  recreation  you  see  :  that  and  my  garden. 
Yes,  I  enjoy  it.  But  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  give 
it  up  after  a  while,"  he  said,  abruptly,  looking  at  March, 
whose  eyes  fell.  "They  will  be  sending  over  a  young 
er  man  to  replace  me  before  long.  I  have  my  ideas, 
of  course,  but  they  are  the  ideas  of  the  past.  We 
have  been  growing  very  rapidly  over  here  lately,  Mr. 
March." 

March  was  spared  comment  by  an  accident  which  at 
the  moment  befell  a  dish  in  the  hands  of  the  servant  ; 
but  for  the  remainder  of  the  meal  his  thoughts  were 
extremely  uncomfortable. 

When  they  rose  from  the  table  he  proposed  to  re 
tire,  but  the  Moravian  was  obdurately  hospitable. 

"  The  inn,  sir !  Have  you  not  learned  that  the 
Americans  have  other  ideas  of  hospitality  ?  "  inquired 
he  gravely,  "  I  will  send  for  your  portmanteau  at 
once,  sir.  It  is  for  you  to  say  only  how  long  you  can 
consent  to  remain  with  us,"  the  doctor  ended  with  his 
beaming  smile.  "No,  no  ! "  he  cried,  at  March's  pro 
test,  "  I  shall  take  it  as  an  affront,  sir,  if  you  return  to 
the  inn.  That  was  very  well  for  the  moment — until  we 
could  meet,  but  now — you  arc  Lady  Amprcy's  friend, 
sir,  and  therefore  mine." 


30  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

March  could  only  submit.  For  the  day  or  two  that 
he  felt  it  right  to  remain,  as  a  tribute  to  Lady  Amprey, 
this  arrangement  Avas  clearly  pleasanter  than  his  own. 
The  inn  he  had  found  a  trifle  stuffy,  though  marvel 
lously  clean,  in  the  Moravian  manner,  and  he  found 
his  heart  opening  vaguely  to  Dr.  Van  Cleef,  who  was 
not  only  likable  for  himself,  but  had  the  additional  ad 
vantage  of  having  unconsciously  allowed  him  to  do  him 
a  kindness.  But  when,  on  the  third  day  of  his  stay,  not 
having  made  his  intentions  known  to  his  entertainer, 
he  went  to  secure  his  place  in  the  coach,  a  letter  was 
handed  him  from  Mr.  Frederick  Lincoln.  It  appeared 
that  he  now  found  himself  at  liberty  to  take  the  respite 
of  which  lie  had  spoken,  from  what  he  called  "confine 
ment  at  hard  labor" — something  which  consisted  in  sit 
ting  under  the  shadow  of  a  freshly-gilt  sign,  awaiting 
clients — and  that  his  determination  to  give  his  English 
cousin  the  benefit  of  this  holiday  still  held  good.  He 
was  not  to  be  looked  for,  however,  it  appeared,  for 
some  days.  "Our  stage  coaches  do  not  travel  post 
haste,  my  dear  fellow,  or  in  any  other  variety  of  haste 
known  to  travellers,"  he  wrote  "  (this  you  may  have 
discovered),  and  there  is  a  charming  uncertainty  about 
the  date  of  our  meeting,  not  to  mention  the  date  of  my 
departure.  Pray  don't  expect  me,  for  if  you  should 
intermit  the  occupation  for  an  hour  or  so,  I  should 
come  at  that  time."  Upon  reflection,  March  did  not 
know  wrhy  he  should  not  await  his  gay  cousin  here. 
He  should  do  a  wrong  to  his  entertainer's  frank  hos 
pitality  he  felt,  in  doubting  his  welcome  so  long  as  he 
chose  to  stay.  He  had  finished  his  tour  of  investiga 
tion  ;  he  had  purposely  left  this  for  the  last.  A  large 
tract  of  land  had  been  offered  him  a  little  to  the  south, 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  31 

which  he  had  not  expected  to  visit.  But  if  he  waited 
he  might  go  and  return.  He  was  inclined  to  believe  it 
extraordinarily  adapted  to  his  colonizing  design,  and 
when  Lincoln  came,  they  could  go  somewhere  for  a 
fortnight  before  he  need  sail  for  England. 

Having  yielded  to  the  abundant  Moravian  hospitality 
he  made  a  point  of  seeing  the  best  in  it.  Judea  was 
exquisitely  provincial,  certainly,  but  that  was  part  of  its 
charm,  and  March  at  least  would  not  have  added  a  pen 
nyweight  of  sophistication  to  it  if  lie  could.  If  it  were 
to  be  complained  that  the  life  was  absurdly  narrow, 
March,  in  his  invincible  satisfaction  for  the  moment 
with  it,  would  have  freely  owned  the  truth  of  all  that 
could  be  said  in  this  direction,  but  he  would  have  urged 
that  one  might  sometimes  grow  a  little  tired  of  the 
broader  life.  One  could  always  angle  in  the  wide,  swift 
currents  ;  it  was  interesting  to  whip  the  brooks  occa 
sionally.  This  was,  of  course,  especially  true  when 
those  brooks  were  American.  The  genuine  hospitality 
was  not  an  every  day  matter  ;  when  one  was  in  the  lux 
urious  enjoyment  of  it,  for  what  could  it  be  advantage 
ously  exchanged  ? 

His  life  from  day  to  day  was  very  simple,  and  though 
it  embraced  much  observation  in  the  direct  line  of  his 
mission,  seemed  to  have  no  other  very  large  aim. 
Nevertheless  he  was  fully  occupied.  There  appeared 
to  be  a  great  many  things  in  Judea  that  might  be  done 
with  pleasure,  and  Dr.  Van  Cleef  busied  himself  un- 
wearyingly  in  searching  these  out  and  setting  them  be 
fore  him. 

"  I  want  to  drive  you  to  the  Old  Basin  this  after 
noon,"  he  would  say  at  breakfast  ;  or  on  another  morn 
ing,  "  Constance,  my  dear,  why  not  show  Mr.  March 


32  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Indian  Gorge  to-day  ?  Now  there  are  the  clock  works, 
You  have  seen  them?  Oh,  of  course,  but  not  Moravian 
clock  works;"  and  "we  omitted  the  Widows'  Choir 
yesterday,  Constance.  You  must  take  Mr.  March  through 
it.  I  want  you  to  see  our  whole  system,  sir."  The  doctor 
seemed  to  think  some  part  of  his  duty  left  undone  in  a 
day  for  which  he  had  provided  no  certain  plan,  and  his 
repertoire  was  apparently  exhaustless.  But  March  en 
joyed  the  days  which  were  less  carefully  mapped  at  least 
as  well ;  and  his  issueless  wanderings  with  Constance 
through  the  settlement;  and  their  morning  talks  in  the 
garden  had  a  value  of  their  own  which  the  pleasantest 
of  their  regularly  schemed  excursions — and  they  were 
certainly  delightful  in  their  way — quite  lacked. 

Constance  did  not  permit  their  guest  to  disturb  the 
even  order  of  her  daily  occupations,  however.  In  the 
afternoon  she  often  spun — a  graceful  employment,  at 
which,  in  the  Moravian  habit,  she  sang  the  Spinne 
Licdcr.  As  she  softly  hummed  the  quaint  airs  which 
the  church  of  the  Unitas  Fratrum  has  wisely  provided 
for  this,  as  for  all  the  industries  of  her  children,  her 
daintily-made  foot  rose  and  fell  in  time,  and  while  the 
easy  motions  of  her  head  and  figure  recurred  in 
harmony,  one  hand  spanned  the  distaff  as  the  other 
ran  to  and  fro,  drawing  forth  the  slight  thread,  and 
returning.  In  the  evening  she  was  wont  to  sit  before 
the  great,  cheery  wood  fire,  the  natural  centre  of  their 
little  circle.  While  her  father  read  Miss  Cynthia 
knitted,  and  March  talked  with  Constance.  At  these 
times  she  was  often  skilfully  elaborating  some  woman's 
fancy  in  embroidery  by  the  light  of  the  massive  cande 
labrum,  or  doing  that  more  prosaic  sewing  which  the 
laundresses  of  Judea  were  accustomed  to  render 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  33 

weekly  to  the  personal  care  of  the  housewife.  Toward 
the  close  of  the  evening  she  would  lay  aside  her  work. 
As  they  sat  thus  confronting  the  flaming  logs  in  the 
wide  chimney-mouth,  their  talk  was  of  many  things  ; 
and  if  the  literature  or  the  art  of  which  they  occasion 
ally  spoke  clung  rather  anxiously  to  English  skirts, 
that  was  perhaps  to  be  expected,  though  disappointing 
to  March's  adoptive  patriotism.  If  America  was  to 
borrow  altogether  in  matters  of  this  sort,  however,  it 
was  agreeable  to  discover  that  her  daughters  occasion- 

o  o 

ally  knew  these  loan  collections,  as  it  were,  so  very 
well. 

March  took  the  journey  to  the  southward  which  he 
had  proposed  to  himself,  and  spent  several  days  in 
travelling  about  a  region  which  impressed  him  as 
particularly  favorable  to  his  purpose.  It  was  not  only 
that  the  land  was  fat,  and  seemed  waiting  wistfully  for 
the  plough.  There  was  the  desirable  neighborhood 
of  cities,  and  the  near  presence  of  a  considerable 
village ;  it  was  all  in  a  particularly  lovely  valley. 
When  he  returned  to  Judea,  he  occupied  some  days 
in  rendering  an  account  of  it  to  the  proposing  immi 
grants  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  As  he  came 
down  into  the  garden  one  morning,  after  finishing  his 
work  for  the  day,  he  perceived  Constance  bending 
over  a  flower-bed  from  which  she  was  steadily  plucking 
the  weeds.  She  wore  a  pair  of  tattered  gloves.  For 
the  first  time  since  March  had  known  her,  she  had  laid 
aside  the  society  cap,  and  wore  an  enormous  straw 
sun-shade.  She  looked  up  to  greet  him,  with  her  clear 
skin  flushed  from  her  exertion.  Down  somewhere  in 
the  depths  of  her  great  sun-bonnet  glowed  her  face, 
and,  as  she  bent  it  again  upon  the  bed,  March  was  left 


34  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

a  wide  prospect  of  straw,  brightened  by  the  broad  blue 
ribbon  that  attached  the  monstrous  piece  of  millinery 
to  her  head. 

"  Have  you  been  at  work  ?"  she  asked,  hollowly,  from 
her  umbrageous  shelter. 

"No;  not  in  the  sense  that  you  are  at  work.  I 
suppose  I  may  say  I've  been  playing  rather  hard.  I've 
been  writing." 

"You  do  a  great  deal  of  writing." 

"Why,  I  have  to  get  up  my  reports,  you  know.  I've 
been  rather  lazy  recently.  My  journey  furnished  me 
with  some  material  that  I  thought  I  might  as  well  do 
up  at  once." 

Constance  went  thoughtfully  on  with  her  weeding. 
After  a  moment,  "Do  you  know,  I've  wondered  if  you 
would  not  be  thought — how  shall  I  say  it — if  they 
wouldn't  think  in  England  you  had  a  good  deal  of 
purpose.  That  is  a  clumsy  way  of  putting  it.  But," 
rising,  "  you  know  what  I  mean.  Are  they  all  as  much 
in  earnest  over  there?" 

"  You  don't  expect  me  to  answer,  do  you  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do.     But  I  should  like  you  to." 

"  You  offer  me  the  opportunity  of  saying  hard  things 
of  my  countrymen,  to  the  elevation  of  myself.  That's 
very  flattering ;  but  I  can  hardly  take  advantage  of  it." 

As  she  stood  before  him,  he  smiled  at  her  laughing 
face,  as  it  showed  in  the  remote  vista  of  the  sun-bonnet. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  you  should  reply  directly.  I 
was  only  giving  you  the  text.  I  hoped  you  would 
talk." 

"  It  would  be  a  little  like  the  Archbishop  of  Canter 
bury  taking  himself  for  a  text,  and  preaching  on  the 
Primate  of  all  England.  But  I'm  willing  to  say,  what 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  35 

is  obvious  to  you,  that  the  entire  body  of  British  youth 
is  not  as  anxious  as  I  was  to  visit  America." 

"  No,  I  see  that,"  agreed  Constance  ;  "  and  what  made 
you  anxious  ?  Will  you  let  me  ask  that  ? " 

"  That's  a  long  story.  But  I  suppose  I  was  a  little 
impatient  of  our  slow  ways  of  coming  at  the  truth,  and 
I  wanted  to  see  a  country  that  seemed  to  have  received 
all  the  new  messages,  and  to  be  exemplifying  them  in 
its  government.  I  thought  that  a  fine  thing." 

"And  is  it?" 

"  It  seems  the  best  we  know,  so  far.  I  don't  see  how 
anything  could  be  better.  But  it  is  only  an  experi 
ment  yet.  No  one  can  tell  how  it  will  come  out." 

"  But  you  are  willing  to  throw  your  fortunes  in  with 
it  ?  You  are  ready  to  give  up  your  certainties  for  our 
uncertainties  ? " 

"  Well,  perhaps,  our  certainties  are  not  so  precious  as 
you  imagine.  For  my  own  part,  I  found  them  rather 
too  certain." 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  good  deal  in  the  freedom  we  offer,  I 
suppose.  We  say,  in  effect,  'You  may  be  anyone's 
equal,  if  you  will.'  That  makes  a  tempting  ground  for 
work  ;  it  is  a  great  opportunity  for  young  men  who 
have  their  way  to  make.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  believe  it 
all ;  but  it  is  an  immense  chance,  if  your  place  is  not 
already  secure." 

"  You  mean  that  my  place  is  secure — that  I  have 
nothing  to  gain  ?  Well,  I  don't  know  how  I  can  blink 
that.  I  should  do  very  well  at  home,  I  suppose.  But 
in  my  position  of  one  who  would  do  very  well  as  it  is, 
it's  rather  my  business,  don't  you  think,  to  look  about 
a  little  for  those  who  are  doing  particularly  ill  as  it  is  ? 
These  people  that  I  am  agent  for  are  not  so  badly  off ; 


36  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

though,  to  be  frank,  they  arc  not  wealthy.  1  don't 
know  that  I  should  have  taken  their  commission  if  I 
had  thought  only  of  them.  But  there  are  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  men  in  England,  Miss  Van  Cleef,  who  are 
really  badly  off — very  badly  off,  indeed.  I  couldn't  tell 
you.  They're  not  starving  ;  but  they're  not  living,  and 
they  have  no  voice  in  a  government,  which,  with  no 
deliberate  evil  intent — it's  a  very  good  government  as 
they  go  ;  it  lias  simply  fallen  into  an  extremely  stupid 
way  of  doing  things,  and  won't  think — oppresses  them 
very  considerably.  It  is  not  the  government,  alone,  I'm 
afraid  ;  it  is  the  whole  system." 

"  But  you  are  part  of  the  system." 

"  Yes,  that's  it  !  " 

"  If  it  falls,  you  go  with  it." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  fancy  I  should  come  in  for  my  share  of 
the  ruin.  But,  as  second  son,  I  mightn't  get  very  much. 
They  don't,  you  know." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  cost  more  than  you  think.  I 
can't  help  saying  that  it  seems  a  very  generous  attitude." 

"  No,  it's  only  fair.  And,  even  so,  I  probably  sha'n't 
live  up  to  it,  whatever  it  is.  If  I'm  in  earnest,  as  you 
say,  my  earnestness  has  an  unfortunate  habit  of  going 
to  sleep." 

"  It's  only  taking  it's  natural  rest,"  smiled  Constance. 
"  I'm  sure  it  has  earned  it." 

"  I  wish  I  thought  so,"  returned  March,  doubtfully, 
as  they  walked  toward  the  orchard  at  the  end  of  the 
garden. 


CHAPTER   III. 

YOUNG  Lincoln  did  not  come,  and  made  no  sign,  but 
March  stayed  on  with  exemplary  patience.  On  a  cer 
tain  morning  nearly  a  fortnight  after  his  arrival,  it 
must  have  been  obvious  to  the  least  watchful  of  guests 
at  Dr.  Van  Cleef's  breakfast-table  that  some  unusual 
force  stirred  the  air.  Miss  Cynthia,  to  be  sure,  did  not 
forget  her  usual  exact  greetings  ;  but  there  was  a  touch 
of  haste  in  her  invariably  deliberate  gait  as  she  entered 
the  dining-room,  and  she  ate  her  breakfast  with  some 
thing  more  than  her  usual  air  of  severe  importance.  It 
was  noticeable  that  she  failed  to  behead  her  egg,  set 
in  its  china  stand,  with  an  accuracy  which  would  have 
borne  mathematical  tests,  and  this  was  uncommon.  She 
was  clearly  repressing  an  inclination  to  haste.  During 
the  morning  various  irregular  sounds  and  odors  issued 
from  the  kitchen,  and  Constance  presently  informed 
March  that  her  father  had  sent  forth  invitations  to  a 
chosen  few  to  drink  tea  with  him  that  evening  in  his 
guest's  honor. 

Miss  Cynthia's  repeated  journeys  to  the  store-room, 
and  jangling  of  keys,  and  rigorous  oversight  of  the 
elaborate  culinary  operations,  accompanied  by  readings 
from  certain  authentic  cookery  books  to  her  exquisitely 
stupid  assistants,  were  not  without  their  result.  The 
tea,  from  the  kitchen  point  of  view,  was  a  notable  suc 
cess.  Never  were  such  tongues  and  hams,  such  flaky 


38  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

biscuits,  such  golden  honey,  sucli  luscious  cakes!  These 
dainties  covered  not  too  profusely  a  damask  cloth, 
upon  which  the  fruits  of  the  earth  were  cunningly 
wrought ;  the  spongy  pat  of  cottage  cheese  did  not  en 
tirely  hide  the  impossible  apple  on  whose  plump  cheek 
it  was  set,  and  one  soon  saw  that  the  centipede,  on  the 
back  of  which  rode  the  glittering  tea-making  equip 
ment  from  which  Constance  ministered,  was  merely  a 
luxuriant  vine.  The  capacious  pitcher  of  buttermilk, 
which  Miss  Cynthia  had  considerately  provided  for  the 
unpampered  tastes  of  the  brethren,  flanked  the  trem 
bling  mould  of  jelly  ;  and  above  all  towered  in  a  great 
glass  dish,  whose  bowl  bore  the  relation  to  its  support 
that  the  foliage  of  the  palm  bears  to  the  trunk,  Miss 
Cynthia's  famous  preserved  pears.  The  thick  facets  of 
the  glass  gave  back  the  light  of  the  candelabra  with  an 
iridescence  which  rivalled  that  of  the  tinkling  pendents 
of  those  splendid  structures  themselves.  Mr.  Keator, 
the  minister  of  the  settlement,  gazing  absently  at  its 
glitter,  found  a  moisture  gathering  at  length  in  his  not 
too  strong  eyes.  The  smooth,  creamy  half-cones,  swim 
ming  in  their  rich  syrup,  looked  forth  through  the 
shining  glass  as  if  challenging  the  modest  eldresses 
who  sat  facing  them  to  reproduce  them.  The  spacious 
dining-room  was  ceiled  and  wainscoted  in  oak,  and 
some  excellent  paintings  of  fish  and  birds,  in  the  well- 
established  style,  brightened  the  long  panels.  The 
usual  monster  open  fire  burned  on  the  andirons,  and 
its  glowing  shadows  danced  over  the  oaken  walls,  and 
ilickered  in  the  faces  of  those  about  the  table. 

Constance  sat  with  her  back  to  the  fire,  fronting  her 
father,  and  commanding  the  brief  line  of  guests  on 
either  side.  The  women  were  upon  her  left,  the  men 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  39 

on  her  right.  Their  inexpressive  countenances  looked 
waitingly  toward  the  clergyman,  Mr.  Keator,  who  had 
been  placed  next  Dr.  Van  Cleef.  The  minister  was  look 
ing  about  musingly,  apparently  absorbed  in  thoughts 
not  directly  related  to  the  present  scene,  but  at  Con 
stance's  word  he  returned  to  himself,  and  giving  her  a 
grateful  look,  glanced  about  from  habit,  as  if  awaiting 
a  deeper  silence,  and  said  a  fervent  blessing,  followed 
by- the  verse  appointed  for  the  day  in  the  Moravian 
calendar.  Then  Constance  inquired  of  the  elder  next 
her  his  preferences  as  to  milk  and  sugar,  and  the  meal 
was  begun  by  all  with  frank  hunger.  The  company 
gathered  about  this  abundant  table  was  not  large,  but 
it  lacked  the  easy  freedom  which  is  supposed  to  char 
acterize  small  parties.  It  is  comprehensible  that  ket 
tle-drums  were  not  quite  usual  things  with  these  good 
people,  and  the  presence  of  a  stranger  may  also  have 
had  its  effect,  at  least  upon  the  eldresses.  They  did  not 
often  meet  young  men,  and  though  this  young  man  was 
certainly  agreeable — as  one  of  them  said  "he  seemed 
to  have  the  gift  of  talking  uncommon  " — they  had  not 
the  facility  which  could  teach  them  to  adapt  themselves 
to  his  foreign  air.  They  accepted  March  a  little  less  for 
mally  as  the  meal  wore  on,  but  no  hospitable  effort  of 
Dr.  Van  Cleef's  induced  the  sisters  to  take  a  more  de 
cided  initiative  in  the  conversation  than  was  implied  in 
making  a  timid  inquiry  or  two  of  the  stranger  touching 
the  conditions  of  life  in  England.  One,  a  little  bolder, 
began  a  serious  conversation  with  Mr.  Keator  upon  the 
state  of  Moravian  missions  in  Greenland,  but  appearing 
to  feel  suddenly  that  this  might  be  thought  impolite  as 
not  including  the  guest  of  the  evening,  quickly  paused. 
This  sister  was  at  the  head  of  the  Young  Women's  Choir, 


40  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

and  she  was  accompanied  by  the  eldress  who  adminis 
tered  the  like  office  among  the  widoAvs.  There  were 
besides  four  other  sisters,  wives  of  the  elders.  March 
wondered  what  age  these  quiet  women  might  have  at 
tained.  The  eye,  as  in  the  case  of  nuns  of  the  Romish 
Church,  refused  to  inform  one.  The  countenances, 
gazing  calmly  from  the  prim  white  coifs,  seemed  sin 
gularly  fresh  and  full.  Their  owners  were  probably 
over  thirty,  but  how  much  ?  Perhaps  ten  years,  per 
haps  forty.  Who  should  say?  Their  dress  was,  if  pos 
sible,  an  exaggeration  of  the  shrinking  from  display 
characteristic  of  all  the  sisters ;  March  noticed  that  the 
stuff  of  their  gowns  was  coarser  and  darker  than  others 
whom  he  had  seen. 

"Have  you  visited  Bristol,  sir?"  inquired  the  elder 
next  March. 

"  I  have  passed  through  it,  yes ;  are  you  familiar 
with  the  place,  Elder  Weiss  ? " 

"  No,  no,  oh  no !  we  have  a  strong  congregation 
there,  that  is  all.  I  thought  you  might  have  met  some 
of  the  brethren,"  said  the  elder,  innocently.  "  But  I 
suppose  it  is  a  large  town." 

"We  have  a  good  many  congregations,"  said  another 
brother,  who  had  been  made  known  to  March  as  Bro 
ther  Berg.  "They  are  quite  a  deal  scattered  ;  but,  if 
we  could  get  them  all  together,  it  would  be  a  goodly 
company.  We  are  an  old  church,  you  know,  sir. 
Most  would  not  think  that  there  was  so  many  of  us. 
We  have  mission  stations  in  the  West  Indies,  in  Green 
land,  among  the  native  Indians,  and  elsewhere.  We 
try  to  do  a  good  deal  in  missions.  The  Church  has  a 
strong  hold  in  your  country,  as  Elder  Weiss  says, 
sir ;  but  we  are  best  in  Germany.  There  is  where 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  41 

we  began.  We  rank  fairly  with  the  other  sects 
there." 

"  It  is  not  for  us  to  boast  of  our  strength,  Brother 
Berg,"  reproved  one  of  the  elders. 

There  was  more  spasmodic  talk  of  a  not  less  artificial 
sort,  and  the  meal  proved  sufficiently  formal.  Dr.  Van 
Cleef  amiably  exhausted  his  strength  in  the  endeavor 
to  uphold  a  pretence  of  conversation  ;  and  in  this  he 
was  seconded  by  Constance,  whose  attacks  upon  the 
taciturnity  of  the  elders  merited  a  larger  reward. 
March  did  more  than  his  share,  and  generously  accept 
ing  the  responsibility,  not  only  of  his  own  entertainment, 
but  of  that  of  the  mute  eldresses,  who  sat  opposite 
him,  talked  vivaciously.  But  even  with  the  occasional 
laconic  spurs  which  the  failing  conversation  received 
from  Miss  Cynthia,  it  lagged  undeniably,  and  Dr.  Van 
Cleef  at  length  sought  refuge  in  giving  the  signal 
which  announced  the  completion  of  the  meal.  The 
people  rose  with  soft  scraping  of  chairs,  and  moved 
slowly  toward  the  parlor. 

"  It's  a  failure,  daughter,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  de 
pressed  undertone,  as  he  passed  Constance,  lingering 
by  her  seat.  "  I  am  afraid  we  can't  deny  it.  It  pains 
me  because  of  Mr.  March.  I  want  him  to  see  us  at  our 
best." 

Constance  laughed  lightly.  "  Don't  fear  for  him, 
father.  He  is  doing  capitally.  It  is  the  others. 
Poor  father  !  But  it  sha'n't  be  a  failure.  Let  me  tell 
you  something."  She  put  up  her  hand  and  whispered 
in  his  ear,  "We  will  make  it  succeed;"  and  she  left 
his  side  swiftly,  looking  back  to  nod  brightly  to  him 
with  a  laugh  of  intelligence.  While  the  guests  in  the 
drawing-room,  to  which  they  had  come,  stood  looking 


42  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

doubtfully  about  them,  as  if  it  were  occasionally  a 
rather  serious  responsibility  to  have  charge  of  one's 
self,  she  went  silently  to  the  harpsichord,  and,  seating 
herself  on  the  long  bench  before  it,  touched  the 
yellowed  keys  softly.  The  faint,  tinny  rattle  that  went 
on  constantly  somewhere  in  the  interior  mechanism  of 
the  instrument  \vas  not  agreeable,  but  it  did  not  seem 
to  annoy  her,  and  she  rambled  thoughtfully  into  one 
of  the  old  Moravian  melodies  dear  to  them  all,  raising 
her  voice  quietly  to  accompany  its  low,  glad  strains. 
The  company,  which  had  turned  toward  her  at  the  first 
note,  seated  itself  gradually,  and  listened  with  silent 
pleasure.  She  struck  into  "Coronation"  with  a  loud, 
firm  prelude,  and  March  came  over  and  joined  her. 
With  a  sympathetic  smile,  he  added  his  strong  un 
tutored  tenor  to  her  rich  soprano,  and  at  this  bold  ex 
hibition,  a  visible  embarrassment  seized  the  gathering, 
and  even  Dr.  Van  Cleef  did  not  seem  thoroughly  com 
fortable.  Nevertheless,  one  of  the  younger  sisters 
chimed  timidly  in  the  second  line,  and  sang  the  stanza 
through  with  them,  while  Miss  Cynthia  uncertainly 
hummed  the  air  from  her  lonely  seat.  Then,  as  Con 
stance  began  again  : 

"Let  every  nation,   every  tribe," 

all  the  eldresses  joined  her,  self-forgettingly.  Before 
the  second  stanza  was  done,  the  bass  and  tenor  voices 
reinforced  them  from  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and 
there  was  a  real  thrill  in  the  repetition  : 

"And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all." 

Brother  Berg  asked  for  "  Brattle  Street,"  and  the 
self-consciousness  of  the  little  company  forgot  to  in 
trude  on  their  joy  in  the  sweet  notes  of  the  ancient 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  43 

hymn.  Constance  sat  feeling  musingly  for  the  accom 
paniment,  and  looking  up  at  a  portrait  of  her  mother, 
by  Gilbert,  that  lit  up  the  dusky  mahogany  panel 
above  the  harpsichord,  while  she  lifted  her  voice  in 
that  absent  consecration,  without  which  singing  is  as 
meaningless  as  drum-beating.  Her  full  soprano  rose 
confidently  to  the  old-fashioned  quaverings  of  the  last 

line  : 

"With  be-e-te--e-r-r  hopes  be  filled," 

and  rang  and  echoed  above  the  others.  It  Avas  indeed 
an  uncommon  voice  ;  and  in  her  ardor  for  her  father, 
and  the  genuine  pleasure  of  use  which  one  gifted  with 
such  an  organ  must  feel,  she  poured  it  forth  in  a  kind 
of  glory  of  melody.  The  others  ceased  from  her  one 
by  one,  and  she  presently  found  herself  singing  alone  : 

"  My  lifted  eye,  without  a  tear, 

The  gathering  storm  shall  see  ; 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  know  no  fear — 
That  he-a-a-rt  wi-i-il  rest  on  Thee." 

She  sang  on  unconsciously,  her  voice  rising  and  fall 
ing  tenderly  to  the  solemn  cadence.  As  she  reached 
the  last  line  she  lifted  it  in  its  ultimate  power,  and 
dwelling  on  the  quaint  quavers,  finished  in  a  full- 
throated  burst. 

"Why,  why  aren't  you  singing?"  she  cried,  turning 
about  on  her  bench. 

"We  were  listening  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Keator. 

"  That's  so,"  asserted  the  stoutest  and  merriest  of 
the  elders.  "You  have  a  beautiful  voice,  Miss  Van 
Cleef."  Why  not  Sister  Van  Cleef  ?  March  wondered. 
"  We  hear  it  at  the  church,  but  there's  so  many  others. 
I  don't  know  as  I  ever  did  hear  you  before,  so  close,  as 
you  might  say,  and  I  don't  suppose  the  rest  of  them 


44  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

have."  Constance  listened  smilingly  to  these  well- 
intentioned  gallantries,  comparing  them  with  sad  amuse 
ment  to  certain  others  in  her  memory.  "  You  know 
what  Scripture  says  about  keeping  your  light  under  a 
bushel,"  the  elder  went  on,  with  a  kindly  twinkle  in 
his  eye.  "  If  you've  got  a  silver  piece  let  the  light 
shine  on  it,  I  say — and — and  call  in  your  friends  and 
neighbors,"  he  ended,  with  humorous  irrelevance. 

"  That  is  not  the  way  it  is  in  the  Bible,  is  it,  Elder 
Reidcl  ? "  deprecated  one  of  the  sisters,  meekly. 

"Well,  I  wasn't  quoting  exactly,"  asserted  the  elder. 
"  I  mixed  up  Matthew  and  Luke  a  little  for  illustration 
— for  illustration,  you  know." 

Constance  had  turned  back  to  the  key-board  dur 
ing  this  discussion,  and  was  murmurously  connect 
ing  herself  with  her  memories.  An  air  seemed  finally 
to  grow  out  of  this  tuneful  confusion,  and  the  com 
pany  finding  it  familiar,  sang  through  the  hymn  which 
was  associated  with  it.  A  Moravian  "  Hymn  and  Tune 
Book "  was  produced,  and  the  sisters  and  brethren, 
gathering  about  the  harpsichord,  asked  for  their  favor 
ites  in  turn.  March,  who,  after  his  friendly  motion  in 
support  of  Constance's  effort  to  induce  an  easier  at 
mosphere,  had  left  the  instrument  and  joined  Mr. 
Keator  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  room,  remained  listen 
ing  with  the  minister  to  the  now  harmonious  and  joy 
ous  sounds.  Occasionally,  while  one  of  the  sisters  ran 
over  the  volume  from  which  they  were  singing,  in 
search  of  a  particular  air,  the  two  exchanged  some 
words  in  undertone ;  but  for  the  most  part  they 
listened  earnestly,  the  minister  always  with  a  kind  of 
reverence.  Occasionally  the  singers  used  the  old  Ger 
man  words,  oftener  the  English ;  and  if  the  diction  of 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  45 

neither  was  irreproachable,  the  idea  which  they  ex 
pressed  was  at  least  perfectly  clear ;  and  they  were 
sung  with  a  fervor  which  was  in  itself  a  species  of  de 
votion,  and  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 

The  singing  of  sacred  hymns  has  not  been  considered 
a  means  of  entertaining  an  evening  party  ;  but  this  was 
not  the  usual  evening  party,  and  Constance  exhibited 
her  discernment  in  choosing  it  as  the  most  efficacious 
salt  for  the  thawing  of  the  obdurate  ice.  Music  was 
not  reserved  for  extraordinary  events  by  the  Mora 
vians  ;  it  was  the  companion  and  brightener  of  each 
day ;  it  was  summons  and  farewell,  the  messenger  of 
grief  and-  happiness,  the  Church's  condolence  and  con 
gratulation.  It  was  the  language  of  praise,  thanks 
giving,  and  worship  ;  of  hope,  and  promise,  and  prayer. 
It  bid  to  church,  it  illumined  the  ritual,  it  ended  the 
service,  and  went  home  with  each  brother  and  sister  to 
dwell  with  them,  as  support,  counsellor,  and  friend. 
Men  were  born  to  the  glad  note  of  trumpets,  they  were 
married  in  hearing  of  their  jubilant  sympathy,  their 
bodies  were  carried  to  the  grave  to  the  harmony  of 
them,  and  over  the  open  sepulchre  the  horns  blew  the 
last  farewell  to  the  poor  clod  beneath.  Among  the 
company  in  which  we  are  interested,  the  singing  begot 
an  agreeable  sympathy,  and  when  they  turned,  at  length, 
from  the  harpsicord  and  disposed  themselves  about  the 
apartment,  they  fell  naturally  into  capitally  assorted 
groups,  and  began  to  talk  among  themselves  without 
self-constraint.  Dr.  Van  Cleef  was  engaging  Mr.  Keator 
in  earnest  conversation,  and  Constance  went  over  and 
let  stout  Elder  Riedel  make  her  what  compliments  he 
would.  March  crossed  the  room  and  bravely  seated 
himself  on  the  hair-cloth  sofa  between  the  two  eldresses, 


46  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

whose  shyness  he  had  measurably  conquered  at  tea. 
He  seemed  to  succeed  admirably  with  them,  for  they 
were  presently  laughing  with  him  in  decent  joy.  The 
elders,  who  were  all  married,  but  were  not  invariably 
accompanied  by  their  wives,  wandered  about  in  their 
long  brown  coats,  holding  discussions  with  one  an 
other  upon  Church  matters,  deliberating  questions 
touching  the  management  of  the  choirs  with  the  sisters, 
or  inquiring  the  news  from  the  Indian  mission  settle 
ments.  Dr.  Van  Cleef,  who,  from  time  to  time  cast 
anxious  glances  toward  March  to  assure  himself  that 
he  was  not  being.bored,  at  last  excused  himself  to  Mr. 
Keator,  and  went  over  toward  the  hair-cloth  sofa. 

"  There  are  a  great  many  blacks  in  the  West  Indies, 
you  say?"  one  of  the  prim,  pretty  sisters  was  enquir 
ing.  "  Yes,  that  is  what  the  missionaries  write  us. 
They  tell  us  they  are  a  great  trial,"  she  sighed.  "  They 
do  not  seem  to  take  to  learning,  somehow  ;  and  even 
when  they  are  converted  they  steal  and  speak  falsely, 
and  the  ministers  do  not  seem  to  be  able  to  make  them 
see  the  wrong  in  it.  It  is  a  great  trial,"  repeated  she, 
"but  I  suppose  the  narrow  way  is  not  easy  any 
where." 

"  No,"  returned  the  young  man,  as  Dr.  Van  Cleef  ap 
proached,  "  I  believe  that  those  who  try  to  pass  through 
it  on  horseback  generally  make  a  failure  of  it."  The 
sisters  looked  at  each  other.  The  comparison  may  have 
seemed  questionable. 

"  Keep  your  seat,  sir,  keep  your  seat,"  exclaimed  Dr. 
Van  Cleef.  Then,  perceiving  the  embarrassment  of 
the  eldresses,  "  Mr.  March  only  means,  I  fancy,  that 
there  is  no  royal  road  to  virtue  ;  we  shall  agree  to 
that,  I  think.  Yes,  yes ;  we  shall  all  agree  to  that," 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  47 

and  he  pulled  nervously  at  his  stock,  while  he  smiled 
cheerily  down  at  them. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Keator  had  encountered  Constance 
moving  away  from  her  elder.  He  took  her  hand  with 
out  speaking,  and  looked  solicitously  in  her  face.  As 
he  continued  absently  to  hold  her  hand,  "  You  have 
tired  yourself,  I  am  afraid,  my — Miss  Van  Cleef." 

She  smiled.  "  You  think  I  am  not  so  strong  as  the 
sisters  ?  That's  true,  but  I  can  play  for  an  hour  on 
the  harpsichord."  She  smiled  at  him  with  the  conven 
tional  smile  of  conversation. 

"  No,  no  ;  it  is  not  that,"  said  he,  slowly  dropping 
her  hand — "  not  that  exactly.  It  is  the  nervous  strain. 
I  have  been  watching  you." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  murmured  she. 

"  I  don't  mean "  He  paused  a  moment.  "  You 

make  an  excellent  hostess,  my — my  dear  girl,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  you  let  the  work  wear  upon  you.  I  have  been 
observing  you,  as  I  say.  You  have  seemed  anxious 
and  urged.  You  burn  too  many  candles."  He  spoke 
with  quiet  deliberation,  in  a  marvellously  gentle  voice, 
and  ended  with  his  winning  smile. 

Mr.  Keator,  facing  the  blazing  wood  fire,  with  the 
light  of  sympathy  in  his  eyes,  might  have  been  thought 
at  the  moment  a  handsome  man  ;  but,  in  the  common 
acceptation,  he  was  as  remote  as  possible  from  merit 
ing  that  epithet.  Commonly  we  think  of  a  stalwart 
figure  in  using  the  adjective,  and  Mr.  Keator's,  alas  ! 
was  not  a  stalwart  figure.  It  seemed  to  have  been 
loosely  put  together,  like  a  hastily-made  house.  The 
joints  were  uncertainly  knit,  and  responded  to  the  de 
mands  of  their  owner  in  the  distant,  secondary  manner 
of  the  last  wheel  in  much-geared  machinery.  When  he 
4 


48  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

stood,  his  frame  settled  naturally  into  a  relaxed  pos 
ture,  and  his  sitting  was  a  species  of  disaster.  A  pain 
ful  infirmity,  which  had  made  of  one  foot  a  mere  im 
potent  weight,  compelled  him  to  use  a  crutch  ;  and  he 
went  about  leaning  his  light  form  on  its  assured  sup 
port.  It  need  hardly  be  added  that  he  was  of  an  ex 
quisitely  sensitive  nature,  and  the  ingenious  reader 
would  guess,  if  it  were  left  unsaid,  that  his  face,  if  not 
a  handsome  one,  was  at  least  a  notable  one.  It  was 
one  of  those  unusual  visages  that  tempt  painting.  In 
deed,  it  suggested  certain  paintings.  There  were  the 
spare,  wan  features,  the  high  cheek-bones,  the  irregular 
lines,  the  passionless  effect  of  those  uncorrupted  monks 
of  the  early  Church  whose  lineaments  cling  in  rare 
canvases.  It  was  a  sweet  and  benignant  face,  and  it 
had,  before  all,  that  indefinable  aspect  which  certifies  a 
man  to  the  divine  calling.  Mr.  Keator  was  little  more 
than  thirty-five,  and  these  characteristics  were  perhaps 
more  conspicuous  because  of  their  natural  attribution 
to  an  older  man.  He  was  strikingly  tall,  and  his 
stooping  shoulders  were  swept  by  the  half-curl  of  the 
even,  satin  locks  which  fell  from  his  admirable  fore 
head.  There  was  a  fine  softness,  a  singular  modesty  in 
his  presence. 

"  I — may  I  have  a  little  talk  with  you,  Miss  Van 
Cleef  ? "  he  asked  presently,  with  embarrassment. 
"  They  are  occupied  just  now,"  he  went  on,  indicating 
the  shifting  groups  ;  "  our  absence  will  not  be  noted  for 
a  short  space.  Will  you  come  into  the  other  room 
with  me  ? "  His  manner  grew  more  confused,  and  he 
finished  with  an  anxious  smile.  His  bearing  might 
have  been  faiftied  to  refer  to  something  tacitly  under 
stood  between  them.  Constance  shot  a  swift,  ques- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  49 

tioning  glance  of  intelligence  at  him.  "  No,  no  ;  not 
that,"  he  assured  her,  in  response.  "You  have  my 
promise,"  said  he,  with  a  touch  of  reproach. 

"  Very  well,"  returned  the  girl.  "  But  let  us  go  to 
the  conservatory."  Thither  accordingly  they  bent  their 
steps,  Constance  leading,  and  Mr.  Keator's  crutch  re 
sounding  upon  the  bare  parquet  floor  of  the  hall. 

"There  are  seeds  there,  I  think,"  she  reminded  him 
kindly,  as  he  leaned  against  the  edge  of  one  of  the 
beds. 

"Ah — ah,  excuse  me,"  begged  the  minister,  snatch 
ing  up  his  crutch  and  hobbling  down  to  a  seat  nearer 
her.  "  I  was  not  thinking,  I  —  He  turned  to  meas 

ure  his  distance,  as  is  the  wont  of  cripples,  before  sit 
ting,  and  did  not  conclude.  He  sank  upon  the  bench, 
and  remained  looking  at  her  painfully  for  some  mo 
ments  ;  his  glance  wandered  over  her  in  a  kind  of  per 
plexed  compassion,  and  he  seemed  several  times  about 
to  speak,  but  as  often  restrained  himself.  At  length 
he  moodily  said,  "  I  could  wish  I  might  tell  you  this 
vicariously.  I  would  much  rather  another  did  it." 

"  If  it  is  painful,  pray  leave  it  unsaid,  Mr.  Keator  ;  I 
am  sure  I  shall  not  like  it,  and  it  will  only  wound  you." 

"  Nay,  nay  ;  it  is  my  duty.  I  must  not  shuffle  out  of 
it,  even  if  my  conscience  would  suffer  it.  But  I  scarcely 
know  how  to  begin,"  said  he,  with  a  puzzled  sigh. 
"  How  to  say  it  so  that  it  may  not  offend  you,"  ques 
tioned  he  with  himself.  "  It  may  even  estrange  you 
from  me  wholly,"  cried  the  minister,  looking  up  in 
sudden  alarm.  "  Alas,  I  am  selfish.  If  that  comes,  it 
must ;  but  it  is  right  that  I  should  tell  you." 

Constance  was  regarding  him  with  distress.  She  re 
membered,  afterward,  that  the  full  moon  was  shining 


50  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

through  the  panes  above  them  and  falling  in  a  kind  of 
aureole  upon  her  companion's  head.  She  knew  that  it 
was  very  warm  in  the  greenhouse,  but  she  could  not 
muster  resolution  to  rise  and  shut  the  damper  of  the 
little  stove.  The  hum  of  conversation  in  the  other 
room  came  to  her  vaguely,  as  through  a  dream. 

"Miss  Van  Cleef,"  said  the  clergyman,  suddenly, 
with  quivering  lips,  "the  Elders'  Conference  felt  it  its 
duty  at  the  last  session  to  discuss  a  matter  concerning 
you." 

Constance's  self-possession  returned  instantly.  "The 
Elders'  Conference  was  very  rude,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  Nay  ;  they  had  no  choice.  The  regulations  of  the 
Church  did  not  leave  it  within  their  discretion.  I  wish 
I  might  spare  you,  my  dear  girl ;  but  I  must  speak 
plainly.  Your  association  with — with  the  young  man 
we  met  to-night  is  offensive  to  the  Society's  rules.  I 
thought  you  would  rather  I  spoke  to  you  than  trouble 
your  father.  I  have  waited,  thinking  he  might  go 
away,  and  that  this  would  be  unnecessary."  He  paused 
fearfully,  and  watched  to  see  how  she  received  the  an 
nouncement. 

Her  eyes  shone  with  suppressed  passion,  but  she 
merely  shut  her  lips  and  said,  coldly,  "Well  ?" 

He  stared  at  her  an  instant,  with  little  comprehen 
sion.  "I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"  How  does  that  affect  me  ?" 

"  Why,  you  are  a  member  of  the  Society  ;  are  you 
not  ?" 

"  A  member  of  the  Society,"  repeated  Constance, 
with  a  compassionate  smile,  "you  know  how  much, 
and  in  what  way.  When  I  connected  myself  with  your 
body  to  please  my  father,  you  can  imagine  that  I 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  51 

scarcely  expected  the  fact  to  be  used  as  a  weapon  against 
me." 

"You  put  it  harshly,"  said  Mr.  Keator.  "You  have 
not  fully  established  your  connection  with  the  Church  I 
know.  But  you  are  a  probationary  member,  and  there 
must  be  restrictions.  That  is  implied  in  admission  to  all 
privileges,"  he  urged  gently. 

"  That  may  be  true  ;  I  don't  know.  But  you  may  be 
sure  that  I  did  not  agree  to  such  an  implication.  Can 
you  fancy,  Mr.  Keator,  that  I  meant  to  give  up  any  part 
of  my  liberty?" 

"  I  don't  know.  We  supposed  so/'  said  he.  "  You 
went  through  the  forms." 

"  The  forms  !  "  cried  she,  with  irony.  "  Yes,  I  remem 
ber  ;  but  I  didn't  make  a  vow  to  refrain  from  conversing 
with  young  men." 

"  Pray  don't,  Miss  Van  Cleef." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !"  cried  the  girl,  impetuously. 
"  But  you  must  remember  my  feelings.  Mr.  March  is 

my  father's  guest  ;  that,  if  nothing  else- ."  She 

paused. 

"  I  am  sure  you  do  not  believe,  my  dear  girl,  that  we 
feel  less  than  your  father  the  obligations  of  hospitality. 
All  the  traditions  of  our  faith  bid  us  give  strangers  gen 
erous  welcome." 

"  And  yet  you  blame  him  for  receiving  Mr.  March." 

"  No,  no.  Any  of  us  would  have  done  as  much, 
though  perhaps  not  under  the  same  conditions.  The 
conditions  are  peculiar,  since  you  are  not  in  full  com 
munion  with  the  Church,  nor  a  member  of  one  of  the 
choirs.  But  we  could  not  expect  your  father  to  take 
the  forethought  natural  to  a  brother  whose  life  had  been 
lived  under  our  system.  We  remember  that  Dr.  Van 


52  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Cleef  has  passed  the  better  part  of  his  days  in  the  world, 
and  no  worldly  habit  of  thought  could  have  taught  him 
to  look  forward  to  the  dangers  we  now  see." 

"  You  mean  that  one  of  you  would  have  perceived  that 
Mr.  March  would  stay  a  long  time  and  become  well 
acquainted  with  me,"  said  Constance. 

"  Pray  do  not  take  the  tone  of  separateness  from  us, 
Constance  !  You  know  that  we  do  not  hold  you  or  your 
father  wrong  in  this  matter.  No  one  could  be  more 
zealous  for  the  Church  or  more  loyal  to  it  than  he,  and 
we  have  liked  to  believe  that  you  too  were  in  good  will 
toward  us,  and  that  you  would  presently  find  a  more 
intimate  spiritual  home  among  us.  I  come  to  you  as  to 
one  of  ourselves,  that  we  may  reason  together  touching 
a  situation  which  no  one  has  intentionally  brought  about, 
but  which,  without  our  will — no  doubt  without  yours — 
is  upon  our  hands.  If  you  will  bring  yourself  to  look 
upon  what  I  have  unwillingly  said,  in  that  light,  I  am 
sure  you  will  see  the  sophistry  of  your  ideas." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Constance.  "  I  am  un 
likely  to  see  it  otherwise.  I  must  not  let  you  take  away 
the  idea  that  the  elders'  wishes  will  affect  my  action." 

"  Oh,  I  feared  that  you  would  take  it  this  way,"  said  he, 
despairingly. 

"  How  else  could  I  take  it  ?  Did  you  expect  me  to 
acquiesce  ? " 

"  We  do  not  expect  you  to  abstain  altogether  from 
intercourse  with  him.  That  would  be  most  grateful  to 
us,  but  it  would  not  be  possible  now.  All  that  we  request 
is  that  your  acquaintance  with  him  be — what  shall  I 
say  ? — a  little  more  formal.  You  see  the  example  it  puts 
before  the  eyes  of  the  young  people's  choirs  ;  it  is  dan 
gerous  to  them.  But  it  is  most  dangerous  to  you.  We 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  53 

must  look  at  the  chances  fairly.  Conceive  for  a  moment 
the  result  of  your  marriage  outside  the  Society." 

"  Pray  be  reasonable,  Mr.  Keator  !  " 

The  Moravian  looked  hurt.  "  I  did  not  say  it  was 
probable,"  pursued  he,  with  unaltered  mildness.  "  But 
very  few  things  are  impossible.  If  you  will  permit  me  to 
suppose  it,  what  then  of  your  religious  profession  ? — 
members  of  our  Church  may  not  marry  with  those  from 
the  world  outside,  you  know.  What  of  your  quiet,  and, 
I  believe,  happy  life  here  with  us  ?  What  of  your 
father  ? " 

"  What,  above  all,  of  Mr.  Keator  ? " 

It  was  a  cruel  blow,  and  the  girl  would  instantly  have 
given  worlds  to  recall  it.  His  pale  visage  turned  a 
ghastly  white,  and  he  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  face  in  a 
dazed  way,  while  he  fumbled  for  his  crutch.  As  he  rose 
painfully  upon  this  support,  "  I  did  not  intend  that,"  he 
said,  gasping  like  a  wounded  animal.  "  You  know  that 
I— ah,  Constance,  you  must  know  that  I  meant  you  a 
kindness  !  " 

The  infinite  gentleness  with  which  he  said  this ;  the 
almost  imperceptible  reproach  in  which  there  was  no 
bitterness,  only  a  hopeless  sorrow,  touched  the  girl  un 
speakably.  She  could  have  wept.  She  rose  and  forced 
him  to  his  seat. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Keator,  forgive  me,  forgive  me  !  I  knew 
that  I  could  be  wicked  and  cruel,  but  I  did  not  know  that  I 
could  be  so  wicked  and  cruel  as  that.  I  must  have  been 
mad.  And  you,  who  are  always  so  good  to  me  ;  do  I 
know  that  you  only  meant  kindness  ?  Ah,  shall  I  ever 
know  any  thing  else  ?  It  will  always  haunt  me.  Did  I 
say  it  ?  I  should  not  have  believed  that  I  could  have 
said  it.  It  only  shows — .  Make  me  a  Moravian,  Mr. 


54  -^   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Keator,"  she  sighed — "  a  sweet,  merciful,  patient,  genu 
ine  Moravian,  like  yourself.  Keep  me  from  such 
things." 

"  My  dearest  girl,  if  I  only  might !  " 

She  could  not  avoid  answering  his  meaning. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  !  "  said  she,  hastily.  "  But  you  agreed 
to  wait  for  my  answer  to  that  question,  you  remember." 

"  I  have  tried  to  keep  my  promise,"  asserted  he,  mod 
estly. 

"  Tried  !  Ah,  Mr.  Keator,  there  might  be  worse  lots 
than  to  be  your  wife  ! " 

The  minister  blushed  in  his  happiness. 

A  pause  fell.  The  situation  between  them  seemed  to 
take  form  and  life  out  of  the  silence,  and  stood  before 
them  embodied,  envisaged  ;  while  each  clothed  it  with  his 
own  thoughts. 

"  I  think  I  owe  you  some  recompense,  though,  for 
your  goodness  now,"  she  said,  thoughtfully  ;  "  I  feel  just 
as  I  said  about  Mr.  March."  Mr.  Keator  sighed.  "  I 
cannot  change  my  manner  toward  him,  though  I  will  try 
to  manage  that  our  association,  as  the  elders  call  it,  shall 
be  less  public  ;  but  for  your  personal  satisfaction  I  may 
tell  you  that  there  is  not  the  slightest  danger  of  what 
you  speak  of,  even  if  he  wished  it.  What  I  might  be  led 
to  do  by  the  opposition  of  the  elders  is  another  matter. 
Does  that  satisfy  you,  Mr.  Keator  ? "  she  asked,  anx 
iously. 

What  could  a  man  do  in  such  case  ?  If  it  was  a  con 
cession,  it  certainly  conceded  very  little.  It  seemed  to 
Mr.  Keator  that  it  left  many  things  to  be  said.  Never 
theless  he  was  fain  to  be  content  ;  it  was  perhaps  more 
than  he  had  expected. 

**  I  suppose  it  should,"  he  said,  generously. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  55 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  should,"  returned  Constance  ;  "  and 
when  Mr.  March  is  gone,  and  I  have  become  a  good 
Moravian  " — she  looked  down  at  her  rosy  palm — "  per 
haps  then  you  may  come  to  me  for  an  answer." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  shy  dignity,  and  suddenly 
left  his  side.  Mr.  Keator  sat  looking  in  speechless  rapt 
ure  at  the  point  where  she  had  vanished  for  a  long 
time. 

The  people  were  still  entertaining  themselves  with 
placid  enjoyment  as  Constance  re-entered  the  drawing 
room.  She  went  directly  to  her  father,  who  was  stand 
ing  apart  for  the  moment  observing  the  scene  with 
satisfaction,  and  took  his  hand  silently.  He  looked  up 
at  her  through  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  as  he  patted 
her  palm. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  daughter  ? "  asked  Dr.  Van 
Cleef,  kindly  ;  "  and  where  have  you  left  Mr.  Keator  ? " 

"  Mr.  Keator  is  in  the  conservatory,  I  think,"  said  she, 
briefly. 

A  faint  tremor  made  itself  felt  in  the  hand  which  the 
doctor's  broad  palm  enclosed,  and  he  gave  his  daughter 
a  quick,  solicitous  glance.  But  he  forebore  to  question 
her  further,  and  they  stood  thus,  absently  regarding  their 
guests  for  some  moments. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHEN  they  had  all  gone,  including  Mr.  Keator,  and 
the  servants  had  arranged  the  room  after  Miss  Cynthia's 
severe  taste,  Constance  went  about  in  dreamy  pursuance 
of  her  habit,  modifying  the  rigor  of  the  chairs'  attitudes. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  her  thoughts  were  wholly 
engaged  with  furniture.  March,  as  he  bade  her  "  good 
night,"  observed  that  she  went  about  her  work  absently, 
and  indeed  a  host  of  thoughts  occupied  her  mind.  Her 
decorative  touch  was  no  less  certain,  however,  March  saw, 
and  the  chairs  and  ornaments  of  the  mantel  and  tables 
fell  as  accurately  into  the  lines  of  grace  as  if  she  had 
given  all  of  her  attention  to  the  matter.  Her  usual  bright 
"  good-night  "  to  him  was  remote  and  thoughtful.  When 
he  had  gone  she  closed  the  harpsichord,  draped  its 
covering  with  thoughtful  care,  and  went  over  to  her 
father,  who  was  sitting  before  the  fire  reading  a  Phila 
delphia  paper,  which  had  reached  him  by  the  afternoon 
stage. 

"  Good-night,  father." 

The  doctor  dropped  his  paper. 

"  Good-night,  dear,"  said  he,  with  an  emphasis  of  his 
invariable  caressing  tone  to  her.  "  Something  troubles 
you,"  exclaimed  he,  as  she  rose  after  kissing  him.  "  What 
is  it?" 

"You  are  imaginative,  father,"  returned  Constance, 
looking  away. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  57 

"  Not  so  much  as  I  wish  I  were.  If  I  had  more  fancy 
I  should  use  it  in  making  myself  believe  that  you  looked 
quite  happy.  But  my  imagination  is  not  equal  to  that. 
Don't  tell  me  if  you  would  rather  not,  my  dear.  I  don't 
wish  to  force  your  confidence,  though  I  should  like  to 
share  your  trouble." 

She  glanced  at  him  in  hesitation  ;  then  turned  her  head 
away  once  more.  Her  lips  trembled.  She  was  deeply 
troubled.  How  willing  she  would  have  been  to  tell  him 
everything  !  But  she  said  with  a  brave  smile, 

"  It  is  nothing,  father  dear — nothing.  You  have  a 
microscope  under  your  eye  to-night,  that  is  all." 

"  Only  my  spectacles,  I  think,  dearest.  I  see  very  well 
with  them,  I  admit,  but  I  don't  think  I  see  things  that 
aren't  before  them.  Still,  still — we  won't  insist.  Good 
night  again." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him  a  second  time,  and  went 
out,  leaving  her  father  staring  a  little  sadly  into  the  fire. 

There  was  much  in  her  heart  ;  and  she  was  glad  of 
the  shelter  of  her  room  to  see  it  more  closely.  Mr. 
Keator's  love,  since  he  had  declared  it,  a  year  before, 
had  cost  her  many  anxious  and  thoughtful  hours.  Her 
experience  had  been  that  of  many  a  girl  of  imagination 
and  honesty,  for  the  first  time  asked  in  marriage  by  a 
fine  man  to  whom  her  heart  has  not  gone  spontan 
eously  out.  Her  intellect  consented  to  Mr.  Keator  com 
pletely.  He  was  good,  noble,  strong.  The  list  of  his 
just  praises  was  not  easily  exhaustible.  He  was  indeed 
in  many  ways  such  a  man  as  she  had  fancied  she  should 
wish  to  marry  when  the  time  came  ;  and  this  made  the 
dissent  of  her  heart  all  the  harder,  especially  as  it  was 
not  an  experienced  heart  and  was  by  no  means  so  clear 
as  she  could  have  wished  touching  the  exact  meaning  of 


5 8  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

what  was  called  love.  That  she  felt  some  of  the  symp 
toms  laid  down  by  the  books — that  is  to  say,  by  the 
novelists — was  merely  perplexing,  not  reassuring.  Her 
father  had  often  told  her  how  people  imagined  the  proper 
symptoms,  given  a  fancy  that  they  were  afflicted 
with  a  certain  disease,  and  she  remembered  too,  how 
frequently  he  had  said  that  people  were  never  ill  accord 
ing  to  the  books. 

She  wished  above  all  things  to  be  honest  with  herself 
and  with  Mr.  Keator  ;  and  at  the  same  time  she  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  her  imagination.  What  if,  for 
instance,  she  was  after  all  in  love  with  him?  What  if  this 
ample  admiration  and  respect  for  him,  this  affection  for 
his  fine  qualities,  this  genuine  liking  for  the  man  himself, 
which  would  have  led  her  to  sacrifice  much  to  do  him  a 
service — what  if  all  these  in  fact  meant  love  ?  What 
standards  had  she  to  try  love  by?  But  when  these 
ingenious  fancies  had  had  their  will  upon  her,  a  residuum 
of  certainty  was  left,  upon  which  she  acted.  She  was 
sure — or  at  least  she  was  almost  sure — that  marriage 
with  Mr.  Keator  would  leave  too  much  unsaid  ;  it  would 
liquidate  only  the  smallest  portion  of  the  debt  which  she 
unaggressively  believed  the  world  owed  her. 

Constance  certainly  expected  much  at  the  world's 
hands — measurable  happiness  for  one  thing,  and  a  quiet 
mind.  The  action  of  the  elders  which  Mr.  Keator  had 
so  gently,  so  kindly  made  known  to  her,  was  not  in  the 
way  of  fulfilling  the  world's  obligation.  She  had  simply 
given  the  matter  of  her  association  with  March  no  thought 
whatever,  she  said  to  herself,  with  some  indignation.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  stooped  to  pick  a  casual  flower  and  it  had 
exploded  in  her  face. 

No  doubt    the  reproof  of  the  elders,  as  they  had 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  59 

delivered  it,  was  even  worse  than  Mr.  Keator  had  made 
it  seem.  She  could  not  thank  the  minister  too  much 
for  making  himself  the  bearer  of  the  message.  He  had 
done  it  out  of  the  purest  kindness  toward  her,  know 
ing  that  he  risked  their  friendship — certainly  the  chance 
of  her  coming  to  love  him.  As  she  thought  of  this  and 
the  cruel  rebuff  she  had  given  him,  she  found  herself  for 
the  thousandth  time  on  the  perilous  brink  of  wonder — 
wonder  whether  in  her  inmost  heart  she  did  not  in  fact 
love  Mr.  Keator.  She  hastily  brought  out*  her  old 
arguments  and  trained  them  upon  this  fancy;  and  she 
had  presently  decided  once  more  that  she  liked  him  too 
well  to  marry  him — an  assurance  which  unfortunately 
could  not  blind  her  inward  vision  to  the  effectiveness  of 
Mr.  Keator  as  a  spectacle  of  the  patient  lover. 

Standing  motionless  in  thought  before  her  mirror,  she 
could  not  help  reflecting  upon  what  would  come  of  it 
all  ;  but  as  she  unloosed  the  golden  coil  hidden  during 
the  day  under  the  society  cap,  and  brushed  its  long 
strands  with  quick  motions,  she  endeavored  to  think  of 
other  things. 

Thoughts  of  Mr.  Keator  and  his  warning  did  not 
cease  to  beset  her  because  she  dismissed  them.  They 
returned  upon  her  quiet  hours  importunately,  and  after 
a  day  or  two  she  felt  that  she  must  share  them  with  some 
sympathetic  spirit.  It  was  unlike  her  to  be  looking 
outside  herself  for  support.  She  was  more  and  more 
troubled,  however,  by  the  attempt  of  the  elders  to  hinder 
her  freedom  of  action.  How  much  further  might  they 
go  ?  She  wished  very  much  to  know.  It  vitally  con 
cerned  her  future  and  her  peace  of  mind.  She  deter 
mined  to  take  counsel  with  one  who  was  near  both  to 
the  society  and  to  her — one  who  would  be  just  to  her 


60  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Church's  customs,  yet  find  sympathy  for  this  especial 
working  of  them. 

Sister  Zelda  was  the  only  woman  in  the  village  to 
whom  Constance  could  have  thought  of  going  on  such 
an  errand,  and  yet  it  seemed  a  departure  from  herself 
to  seek  advice,  even  from  her.  She  reproached  herself 
for  her  hesitancy  about  her  father's  people  ;  but  could 
she  help  it  ?  They  were  not  her  people.  They  were  not 
of  her  spiritual  kindred.  They  were  not  of  her  world. 
Of  course,  they  were  of  an  infinitely  better  world. 
No  one  felt  that  more  clearly  than  Constance  ;  but  it 
was  not  hers,  and  she  had  long  ago  given  up  trying  to 
export  herself  to  the  solar  systems  of  others,  or  fancying 
that  any  one  could  be  imported  into  hers.  If  hers  was 
the  brighter  sun — perhaps  it  was  not,  but  she  enjoyed  its 
action  upon  her  so  much  that  she  ventured  to  believe  it 
very  bright — she  felt  that  the  fact  implied  a  duty  upon 
her  part  toward  those  who  did  not  live  in  its  rays,  and 
she  held  herself  constantly  ready  to  get  out  of  the  light, 
and  to  let  them  bask  in  its  radiance  as  long  as  they 
would.  But  she  knew  better  than  to  suppose  that  they 
would  accept  it  as  a  better  sun  than  theirs,  or  that  they 
could  if  they  would.  And  upon  her  part  she  acknowl 
edged  the  same  incapacity  as  to  other  suns. 

The  daughter  of  the  physician  of  the  settlement,  she 
knew  more  or  less  intimately  every  inhabitant  of  it.  But 
they  did  not  understand  her,  nor  perhaps  wholly  trust 
her  in  the  matter  of  her  attitude  respecting  the  Church, 
and  she,  though  in  sympathy  with  their  general  purpose 
— she  was,  of  course,  heartily  for  any  thing  that  made 
toward  good — was  unable  to  like  all  the  methods  by 
which  they  sought  to  accomplish  it.  For  the  people 
themselves  she  had  the  kindest  regard  ;  but  this  consisted 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  6 1 

with  a  certain  unfriendliness  toward  their  theory  of  life. 
They  were  good  and  noble  and  fine  ;  they  gave  her  in  a 
way  pure  delight,  and  were  constantly  teaching  her  to 
take  shame  to  herself  that  she  was  so  far  below  them  in 
all  that  was  finally  worth  while,  but — and  she  gave  the 
"  but  "  a  feeling  stress — she  did  not  know  how  to  sustain 
long  conversations  with  them.  They  had  not  her  interests, 
or  rather — for  she  invariably  owned  that  the  fault  was 
hers — she  had  not  theirs. 

To  all  this  Sister  Zelda  was  in  some  degree  an  excep 
tion.  Like  Constance  herself,  she  had  been  educated 
outside  the  faith,  and  had  memories  of  a  rebellious  time 
when  she  too  observed  Moravianism  with  the  critical  eye, 
from  without.  She  had  come,  however,  to  look  at  it  in 
the  one  fair  way  of  looking  at  things — from  within,  or  as 
if  one  were  within — and  she  found  it  now  so  satisfying 
that  she  longed  to  repeat  her  experience  in  Constance. 
They  were  accustomed  to  hold  many  interesting  talks 
together.  Since  March's  coming  these  talks  had  been 
fewer,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  that  she  had  been  neg 
lecting  her  a  little  that  Constance,  two  days  after  her  con 
versation  with  Mr.  Keator,  took  her  way  to  the  Widows' 
Choir  House,  in  which  Sister  Zelda  had  her  home. 

She  entered  the  arched  doorway  of  a  large  stone  build 
ing  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  like  structures,  and  went 
along  the  hallway  paved  with  the  bricks  which  the  breth 
ren  had  made  for  themselves  in  the  early  days  of  the  set 
tlement.  Between  the  lines  of  doors,  on  either  side  the 
passage,  stood  the  cupboards  in  which  the  sisters  kept 
their  unluxurious  dainties  stored.  The  moons  above  the 
two  high  clocks  set  in  diagonal  corners  were  winking  at 
each  other  over  the  big  German  stove  between  them. 
The  bricks  were  extraordinarily  clean,  and  so  was  all  the 


62  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

wood-work.  The  balustrade  of  the  staircase,  leading 
above,  shone  with  a  glister  like  silk.  There  was  a  con 
science  in  the  turn  of  the  coverlids  on  the  prim  white 
beds,  which  Constance's  glance  included  familiarly  as  she 
passed  the  occasional  open  doors.  On  the  threshold  at 
the  end  of  the  hallway,  a  cat  lay  sleeping  in  the  sun  ;  and 
looking  out  beyond,  Constance  saw  that  most  of  the  sis 
ters  were  at  work  in  their  garden.  The  sight  reproached 
her  abandonment  of  her  own  garden  in  this  precious 
seed-time  ;  but  Sister  Zelda  raised  her  well-made  little 
figure  from  a  bed  of  sweet-william  at  the  moment,  and 
she  remembered  her  errand.  The  Moravian  caught  sight 
of  her  visitor  at  once,  and  came  toward  her,  smiling. 

"Is  it  me  you  have  come  to  see,  Sister  Constance  ?" 
She  took  her  hand. 

"  Do  I  come  to  see  any  one  else  ? " 

"  Alas  !  no.     I  wish  you  might." 

"  Ah,  well,  that  is  an  old  question,  Sister  Zelda,  and  I 
have  a  new  one  for  you  to-day.  We  shan't  need  the 
weeds,  shall  we  ? "  She  pointed,  smiling,  to  the  green 
bunch  in  the  sister's  hand. 

Sister  Zelda  threw  them  down  with  a  restrained  laugh, 
and  dusted  her  hands,  gloved  in  studiously  darned  lisle 
thread. 

"  I  am  not  sorry  to  leave  the  weeds  ;  my  back  is  sore, 
I  may  tell  you,  with  stooping."  She  gave  her  matronly 
head  a  faint  shake,  and  tightened  her  white  cap  strings. 
As  the  absent  minded  pinch  themselves  to  remember  that 
they  are  praying,  she  reminded  herself  in  this  way  that 
she  was  talking  too  much  of  herself  ;  and  she  began  at 
once  to  ask  Constance  about  her  welfare. 

"  I  hope  you  have  been  well,  dear.  It  is  more  than  a 
week  since  we  met." 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  63 

"  My  body  has  been  briskly,  thank  you — but  my 
thoughts,  Sister  Zelda — I've  come  to  talk  with  you  about 
my  thoughts." 

The  elder  woman  led  her  caller  into  her  neat  chamber, 
plainly  furnished  and  uncarpeted,  but  bright,  with  its  own 
shining  cleanliness,  and  taking  color  and  warmth  from  its 
prosperous  window  garden. 

"  I  am  fearful  that  I  know  what  concerns  you,"  she 
said,  as  she  seated  Constance  in  the  single  rocker,  and 
stood  behind  it  holding  the  knobs  at  the  top  tightly,  and 
glancing  at  the  girl's  side-face  with  compassion. 

"  Come  here — before  me,  won't  you,  Sister  Zelda.  ?  I 
want  to  speal?  to  you  about  it — all  the  more  if  you  know." 
She  half  turned  her  head  and  gave  her  companion  a 
furtive  upward  glance  ;  but  the  sister  kept  her  hands  on 
the  knobs  and  turned  her  face  away. 

"  It  is  hardly  so  bad  as  that,  Sister  Zelda.  You  need 
not  hesitate  to  talk  of  it  with  me.  I  am  rebellious,  of 
course,  but  I  don't  mean  to  discuss  the  right  of  the  elders 
to  send  such  a  message  to  me — it  is  that  you  have  heard 
about,  I  suppose,  though  I  can't  fancy  how.  I  am  only 
curious  to  know  how  much  further  they  can  go." 

Sister  Zelda  took  down  her  nearest  hand  and  put  it  in 
Constance's.  She  did  not  change  her  position. 

"  The  Church  has  its  laws.  But  you  need  not  to  vex 
yourself  with  them,  Constance.  Laws  are  made  for  those 
who  break  them — is  not  that  it  ?  " 

"  But  suppose  /  break  them  ?  " 

"You  will  not  !  "  cried  her  companion. 

"  1  don't  know.     I  shan't  imprison  myself  in  them." 

"  Surely  you  will  heed  the  elders  !  "  Sister  Zelda  came 
before  the  young  girl  and  looked  anxiously  down  into  the 
calm  eyes  turned  up  to  her. 
5 


64  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  It  depends  upon  what  they  ask.  I  don't  mean  to  be 
unreasonable,  but  they  must  not  be." 

"  My  dear,  my  dear  !  I  had  hoped  you  were  nearer 
the  Church  than  that.  If  you  were  really  one  of  us,  as  I 
have  liked  to  think,  you  would  bear  this  yoke  so  easily  ! 
I  know — you  see  it  all  from  outside.  In  that  light  every 
rule  is  a  bond.  I  remember  when  to  me  it  seemed  so. 
But  really,  dear,  it  is  a  guide — only  a  guide.  Try  to 
think  humbly  of  it  in  that  way." 

The  mysterious  serenity  wrought  by  twenty  years'  holy 
living  was  in  the  sister's  face.  The  effluence  of  her  mild, 
sweet  presence  was  like  a  patient  reproach  of  all  pride 
and  self-will  and  wrong-doing.  Her  words,  Constance 
felt,  added  nothing  to  it  ;  and  when  the  girl  glanced  at 
her  white  cap-strings,  she  felt  a  fleeting  loathing  for 
the  life  of  which  those  colorless  widow's  ribbons  made  so 
little,  and  of  which  she  was  making  so  much. 

Yet,  she  said,  as  a  fresh  resentment  of  the  elders' 
encroachment  and  her  impatience  of  walking  in  an  alley 
way  of  rules  swept  over  her,  "  I'm  afraid  you  can't  reform 
me,  Sister  Zelda.  I  wasn't  bred  with  the  ideas  which 
what  you  have  urged,  and — may  I  say  it  ? — your  life, 
seem  to  make  so  grateful.  It  is  a  misfortune,  since  I  am 
to  live  among  those  who  were  reared  under  them, — espe 
cially  in  my  relation  to  father.  I  assure  you,  if  I  could 
make  those  ideas  mine  by  wishing,  I  should  have  been  a 
good  Moravian  long  ago,  for  his  sake.  What  I  am  anx 
ious  to  know  is  very  simple.  The  elders  have  bidden  me 
use  Mr.  March  less  cordially.  I  do  not  mean  to  do  it. 
What  will  be  the  result  ? " 

"  My  child  !  you  will  be  called  before  the  elders  !  " 

"  Please  don't  think  that  the  consequence  will  make  a 
difference.  I  shall  do  what  seems  right.  I  only  wish  to 
be  prepared." 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  65 

Sister  Zelda  left  her  side  and  went  sadly  to  the  window, 
where  she  took  up  a  pair  of  small  scissors  which  she 
kept  there,  and  began  to  cut  back  a  small  geranium  as  if 
— though  it  was  early  Spring — it  were  to  go  to  the  cellar 
for  the  Winter.  She  breathed  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  You  are  in  love  with  him." 

Constance  started  up. 

"  You  will  go  away  with  him.  We  shall  lose  you." 
She  took  a  handkerchief  of  coarse  linen  from  her  pocket, 
and  unfolding  it  touched  it  softly  to  her  eyes. 

"  Zelda  !"  cried  Constance,  coming  up  behind  her, 
"  do  you  think  that  was  like  you  ?  Must  I  be  moved 
by  something  outside  my  sense  of  courtesy  and  right  in 
a  matter  like  this,  if  I  oppose  myself  to  your  system  ? 
You  know  me  better  than  any  one  else  in  Judea — except 
father  and  Mr.  Keator.  Do  you  think  I  must  be  in  love 
with  my  father's  guest  to  wish  to  treat  him  as  becomes 
the  head  of  my  father's  household  ?  Ah,  Sister  Zelda,  I 
can't  believe  you  do  !  " 

She  took  her  by  her  shoulders  with  a  caressing  motion 
not  common  with  her.  Sister  Zelda  turned  reluctantly, 
and  smiled  through  her  tears  into  the  girl's  eager  eyes. 
She  thrust  her  handkerchief  back  into  the  wide-mouthed 
pocket  of  her  loose  skirt. 

"  You  feel  that  you  are  acting  rightly.  I  know  that. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  take  exception  to  your  motives.  What 
I  said  ...  it  was  my  love  for  you  that  spoke," 
concluded  she,  hastily,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,"  exclaimed  Constance,  contritely, 
as  she  led  her  to  the  seat  she  had  herself  just  quitted. 
She  brought  a  cricket  and  sat  beside  her,  keeping 
silence,  while  Sister  Zelda  patted  her  hand  and  gained 
control  enough  of  her  voice  to  say, 


66  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

11 1  know  you  do  not  care  enough  for  yourself,  Con 
stance — but  for  your  father's  sake,  and  for  mine  a  bit, 
if  that  does  not  seem  like  presuming — for  sometimes  I 
think  you  have  a  mite  of  liking  for  Sister  Zelda — surely 
you  will  try  not  to  offend  the  elders.  Your  father  loves 
the  Church.  It  would  be  a  sore  cross  to  him  if  the 
Church  should  be  forced  to  reprove  your  ways  openly." 

"  They  would  not  dare — !  " 

"  You  do  not  know.  We  have  many  old  laws.  Our 
people  submit  themselves.  They  are  in  little  use." 

"  If  you  begin  to  hold  terrors  over  me,  I  shall  be  sin 
ning  presently  to  prove  that  they  are  no  terrors,"  laughed 
Constance,  half  earnestly. 

"  Oh,  my  child,  my  child  !"  lamented  Sister  Zelda,  "  I 
wish  to  lead  you  ever  so  gently,  and  after  all  it  is  as  if  I 
tried  to  drive  you.  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  shall 
do  you  no  good.  Let  us  talk  of  somewhat  else." 

Constance  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  rising,  walked  over 
and  pretended  to  examine  her  companion's  plants,  while 
she  asked  her  some  questions  about  them  ;  and  soon  she 
remembered  that  her  own  plants  awaited  her  out-of-doors, 
and  that  she  must  bring  her  visit  to  an  end.  Sister 
Zelda  let  her  go  wistfully.  She  did  not  revert  to  the 
topic  they  had  left,  though  her  love  and  her  fears  cried 
for  one  final  word. 

Mr.  Keator  did  not  again  visit  the  house  for  several 
days,  but  when  he  came  at  length  Constance's  reception 
of  him  would  not  have  indicated  that  he  held  a  place  in 
the  foreground  of  her  thoughts.  The  simple  presbyter 
helplessly  recognized  past  happenings  by  the  mere 
manner  of  taking  her  hand.  He  glanced  shyly  at  her 
with  an  uncertain  smile,  and  hastily  took  a  seat  beside 
her  father  and  began  the  discussion  of  some  temporal 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  67 

affairs  of  the  community.  Constance  continued  her  talk 
with  March  by  the  window. 

After  this  Mr.  Keator  was  seen  as  often  as  usual  at 
Dr.  Van  Cleef's  residence,  and  in  the  botanical  talks 
which  he  constantly  held  with  his  host  made  an  effort 
not  to  see  that  Constance  avoided  tete-a-tetes  with  him. 
Botany  was  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  the  two  men, 
and  the  firmness  of  this  passionless  form  of  attachment 
is  notorious.  Mr.  Keator's  branch  was  not  Dr.  Van 
Cleef's  ;  he  did  not  cultivate  a  large  horticultural  gar 
den.  He  observed  the  habits,  the  forms,  the  scheme  of 
life  of  common  plants,  and  this  only  required  a  modest 
greenhouse.  But  his  love  of  the  science  was  as  lusty 
as  his  friend's  ;  and  care  and  study  of  his  botanical 
library,  and  the  herbarium  stored  beneath  his  book 
shelves,  occupied  the  larger  portion  of  the  rare  hours 
that  he  allowed  himself  to  snatch  from  his  profession. 

In  naming  a  flower  plucked  on  his  woodland  walks 
he  often  spent  several  weeks.  The  addition  of  a  new 
specimen  to  the  voluminous  herbarium,  in  which  he 
aimed  to  include  the  entire  range  of  plant  life  in  the 
region  about,  was  a  keen  satisfaction.  He  found  pleas 
ure  in  watching  the  large  collection  grow  larger,  in 
smoothing  the  regular  green  outlines  of  a  freshly  found 
plant  on  its  background  of  clear  white  paper,  in  carefully 
pressing  it  between  the  sheets  of  pasteboard,  in  tracing 
its  genus,  species,  and  the  like,  on  the  cover  in  his  small, 
perfect  hand.  The  close-set  shelves,  arranged  as  a 
depository  for  these  precious  volumes,  ran  about  the  four 
sides  of  his  library  beneath  the  books  ;  and  the  neat, 
thin  quartos,  between  whose  sides  the  fading  plants 
slept,  seemed  to  have  no  quarrel  with  any  but  the  sour 
est  of  the  theologians  above.  "  We  are  part  of  nature," 


68  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

they  might  have  been  fancied  to  say  ;  "  if  you  also  are, 
very  well !  If  not,  so  much  the  worse  for  you." 

Into  this  library  March  found  himself  often  straying, 
as  his  acquaintance  with  its  owner  ripened.  The  min 
ister  was  an  Englishman,  and  it  chanced  that,  his  mother 
being  of  German  birth,  part  of  his  education  had  been 
gained  at  Heidelberg.  The  early  years  of  his  ministry  had 
been  passed  in  the  mother  country,  and  he  had  been 
sent  to  America  because  of  his  command  of  the  ;t\vo 
languages  needful  in  this  field — German  and  English  ; 
an  Englishman  who  spoke  excellent  German  being 
thought,  on  the  whole,  as  well  adapted  to  the  work  as  a 
German  who  knew  no  English.  March  had  many  agree 
able  reminiscent  talks  with  him  about  England  and 
Heidelberg.  They  had  not  been  at  Heidelberg  to 
gether,  but  English-speaking  students  were  rarer  at  the 
German  university  at  that  time  than  now,  and  a  common 
experience  of  the  kind  was  a  more  valid  reason  for  fel 
lowship  than  it  might  now  be  regarded. 

Mr.  Keator  impressed  March  as  a  singularly  fine- 
fibred  and  charming  spirit.  In  some  ways  he  was 
thoroughly  unlike  the  people  over  whom  he  had  been 
set.  His  infirmity,  which  hindered  him  in  no  good 
work,  and  as  to  which  he  was  at  once  touchingly  intelli 
gent  and  finely  unconscious,  was  in  itself  a  commenda 
tion  to  liking.  For  the  clergyman's  part,  he  was 
extremely  courteous  to  the  young  man.  He  invited  him 
to  make  use  of  his  library,  which  was  rich  in  certain 
volumes  that  March  found  useful  in  his  investigations 
regarding  the  country  he  had  come  to  explore.  The 
young  man  when  he  came  was  made  unaffectedly  wel 
come  ;  if  Mr.  Keator  was  at  work,  the  minister  merely 
gave  him  his  cordial  greeting  and  went  on  ;  and  when, 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  69 

as  occasionally  happened,  he  came  in  and  found  March 
engaged,  he  left  him  to  his  studies. 

A  feeling  of  good  comradeship  rose  between  them,  to 
which  the  members  of  the  family  of  March's  entertainer 
were  singularly  unrelated.  In  the  conversations  of  the 
two  they  were  seldom  mentioned.  Discussing  the  larger 
subjects  in  rambling,  unheated  fashion,  March  received 
a  series  of  mild  shocks  in  becoming  acquainted  with 
certain  opinions  of  his  interlocutor  which  went  perilously 
near  the  root  of  things.  Some  of  these  did  not  appear, 
at  first  thought,  part  of  the  natural  equipment  of  a 
Moravian  presbyter,  and  they  were  at  least  astonishing 
as  specimens  of  the  mental  furniture  of  a  gentle  spirit. 
But  nearer  acquaintance  reconciled  many  things,  and 
March  presently  perceived  that  the  ideas  which  had 
seemed  idiosyncrasies  were  in  fact  the  necessary  corol 
laries  of  the  simple  faith  by  which  he  lived.  Mr.  Keator 
was  merely  that  being  dear  to  the  angels,  if  in  little 
repute  among  mortals,  a  perfectly  impractical  man.  His 
clear  vision  distinguished  Right  through  whatever  fog 
of  Wrong  with  a  certainty  which  rendered  him  impatient 
of  the  means  for  lifting  the  fog.  That  noble  dream  of 
binding  the  thousand  differing  sects  in  one  vast  Church 
was,  for  instance,  very  dear  to  him.  He  looked  forward 
to  the  abolition  of  slavery  the  world  over,  and  there 
would  certainly  have  been  a  tremendous  rattling  of  shack 
les  if  he  had  been  born,  let  us  say,  the  Czar  of  Russia. 

Fortunately  his  theories  led  him  to  no  aggressive  acts. 
As  a  Moravian  he  was  opposed  to  wars,  and  March  was 
confident  that  he  would  grieve  for  the  accomplishment 
of  the  fondest  of  his  large-hearted  wishes  if  achieved  by 
force  of  arms.  He  might  indeed  head  a  missionary 
army  ;  but  its  methods  would  be  unsanguinary. 


70  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

March  saw  much  of  Mr.  Keator,  but  he  did  not  see 
less  of  Constance  ;  and  once  or  twice,  as  they  came 
into  the  house  after  a  morning  spent  in  the  garden  or 
upon  a  long  drive,  it  occurred  to  him  that  these  were  the 
conditions  under  which  wooings  went  on.  It  did  not 
follow  that  he  should  arraign  himself  for  this.  He  was, 
for  the  most  part,  not  a  man  of  anxious  scrutinies,  and 
the  ring  of  sentiment  was  the  last  which  he  was  likely  to 
test  over-curiously.  He  felt  no  obligation  to  ask  him 
self  whether  he  was  in  love  with  the  girl  who  caused  him 
to  pass  so  many  agreeable  hours. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  shadow  of  Winter  which  had  lingered  on  the 
sulky  clouds  slowly  passed  at  the  sun's  bright  nods,  and 
the  reluctant  foliage  by  imperceptible  motions  dressed 
the  trees  and  shrubs.  But  toward  the  middle  of  April 
came  one  perfect  day.  The  sun  gallantly  made  satisfac 
tion  for  all  past  failings,  and  shone  upon  the  sleeping 
earth  as  if  it  were  never  to  shine  again.  A  new  fra 
grance  rose  from  the  steaming  soil.  Out  in  the  fields 
the  broad  hats  of  the  brethren  again  knew  their  proper 
use  as  shades,  and  as  they  followed  the  plough,  rolling 
up  the  fat  soil  in  long  moist  lips,  their  rejoicing  chorales 
came  softened  to  the  ear  of  the  settlement  through  the 
sunlit  air.  The  sleek  oxen,  pausing  at  the  end  of  the 
furrows,  raised  their  mild  eyes  and  lowed  with  sturdy 
liking  toward  the  wide  blue.  In  the  orchards  the  magic 
warmth  touched  the  tardy  buds  and  straightway  they 
were  blossoms,  while  any  one  could  see  the  leaves  unfold 
ing  to  the  clear,  sweet  air.  The  slandered  northern 
Spring  moves  slowly  ;  she  hangs  shyly  back  as  any 
maiden  should,  she  coquets  with  the  earth,  she  pouts, 
she  is  full  of  whimsey  ;  but  when  she  comes  she  comes 
royally. 

Dr.  Van  Cleef's  garden  leaped  forward  under  the 
amiable  impulse.  The  lilac  bushes  under  the  side  win- 
clows,  which  had  only  waited  a  little  encouragement, 
flowered  within  the  day,  and  the  jonquils  took  heart  and 


72  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

held  up  their  heads  with  a  consciousness  of  propriety  in 
their  presence  under  such  a  sky.  From  every  quarter  of 
the  garden  rose  a  cloud  of  perfume  which  the  sense 
presently  discriminated  as  the  incomparable  odor  of  the 
violet.  The  breeze  brought  from  the  fields  the  nameless 
earth  smell,  mingled  with  the  faint  scent  of  apple-blos 
soms.  Every  shrub  felt  the  indubitable  Spring  in  its 
veins  and  did  honor  to  it.  The  rose-buds  swelled  joy 
fully.  Dr.  Van  Cleef  bade  adieu  to  solicitude  touching 
late  frosts,  and  superintended  the  transplanting  of  the 
sheltered  greenhouse  blossoms  to  open  beds.  There 
was  a  new  brightness  in  the  fine  garden  when  the  flam 
ing  geraniums,  the  fuchsias,  the  begonias,  and  the  rest, 
once  more  rose  from  their  "native  soil  and  saluted  the 
weather.  The  doctor  made  few  professional  visits,  but 
went  about  with  a  happy  smile,  carrying  a  small  pair  of 
pruning  shears,  with  which  he  corrected  from  time  to 
time  impertinent  growths.  The  robins  and  bobolinks 
flew  across  his  path,  and,  perching  confidently  on  the 
neighboring  shrubs,  chirped  their  inebriate  glee  in  the 
old  man's  face. 

The  days  which  followed  seemed  less  admirable  only 
because  less  novel.  One  ceased  to  think  of  the  weather, 
as  there  was  clearly  nothing  left  to  wish,  and  from  such 
suave  skies  only  an  obstinate  cynic  could  have  expected 
any  thing  but  the  most  lady-like  behavior.  It  was  plain, 
not  only  that  the  Spring  had  come,  but  that  she  had  been 
confirmed  in  her  urbanity  and  had  nothing  to  retract. 
The  school  boys,  whom  March  had  heard  at  intervals, 
in  colder  weather,  clamoring  mildly  on  their  play-ground, 
let  loose  their  voices  now  in  the  sunshine  with  a  hearti 
ness  quite  without  propriety,  but  which  the  masters,  sym 
pathizing  perhaps  with  their  joy,  did  not  appear  to  feel 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  73 

it  their  duty  to  repress.  Giant  kites  floated  in  battalions, 
isolated  to  the  eye  from  earth  and  clouds,  and  the  long 
street  became  the  field  of  critical  skirmishes  at  Prisoner's 
Base.  In  the  late  afternoons  these  merry  youngsters, 
whom  no  error  of  costume  could  age,  came  from  the 
woods  laden  with  sassafras  and  sweet  flag  and  other 
objects  of  boyish  search,  chanting  in  raucous  soprano 
the  hymns  of  their  choir.  The  older  girls,  too,  as  Easter 
approached,  might  be  seen,  clad  in  the  simple  dress  and 
modest  cap,  returning  to  the  settlement  with  baskets  of 
trailing  arbutus,  hepatica  and  dog  tooth  violets  for  the 
decoration  of  their  choir  houses  and  the  great  congrega 
tion  house  ;  and  as  their  full,  sweet  voices  rose  in  their 
virginal  chants,  beseeching  the  Bridegroom  of  the 
Church  to  grant  them  purity  of  heart  and  that  peace 
which  passeth  all  understanding,  March  felt,  as  he  list 
ened  from  the  green  depths  of  the  garden,  or  sometimes 
stood  aside  on  the  street  to  let  them  pass,  that  the 
prayer  was  needless.  Certainly  here  was  an  exquisitely 
pure  and  lofty  faith,  one  in  which  one  might  live  calmly 
and  die  strongly. 

In  this  friendly  view  he  was  much  strengthened  by 
acquaintance  with  certain  of  the  brethren.  March 
found  himself  liking  them  greatly,  and  in  much  the  same 
way  and  for  the  same  reasons  that  he  liked  men  in  the 
world.  Indeed  it  was  only  in  some  little  tricks  of  speech 
and  dress  that  they  enforced  the  difference,  and  though 
they  could  not  entirely  cloak  in  their  conversation  the 
broad  charity,  the  serene  faith,  the  intimate  walk  with 
God,  which  were  the  essentials  of  their  creed,  they  never 
insisted  upon  them,  and  one  learned  from  long  acquaint 
ance  only,  the  perfect  manliness,  the  noble  simplicity  of 
their  lives.  They  were  not  only  admirable  Christians  ; 


74  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

they  were  after  their  lights — as  March  told  himself  with 
a  perception  of  the  humor  of  the  phrase  as  applied  to 
them,  yet  with  a  sense  of  its  absolute  truth — chivalrous 
gentlemen.  In  other  words,  they  met  him  in  a  measure 
on  his  own  ground  ;  they  spoke  the  universal  language 
of  courtesy.  It  is  true  that  they  used  it  a  little  shyly — 
not  as  an  unfamiliar  tongue,  but  as  if  with  a  fear  that  their 
accent  might  not  in  every  respect  correspond  to  his — but 
March  found  springing  up  between  them  and  him,  a  kind 
of  fraternity  which  ,was  altogether  pleasant. 

"  You  will  be  one  of  us  mayhap  yet.  Brother  March," 
ventured  one  of  the  younger  brethren  to  him,  as  they 
came  out  of  the  church  together  one  afternoon.  "  You 
admire  our  faith.  You  say  you  like  the  life.  We  shall 
look  to  see  you  join  us  some  day." 

The  young  man  smiled  that  waiting  smile  with  which 
the  deaf  sometimes  deprecate  the  answer  they  may  fail 
to  hear. 

"  It  is  not  likely,  I  fear,  Conrad.  The  old  Adam  is  a 
little  strong  in  me  still.  You  could  hardly  receive  me 
consistently,  and  I  certainly  couldn't  come  to  you  with 
any  kind  of  conscience,"  smiled  March.  "  Besides,  the 
world  calls  me  yet.  Moravianism  is  not  for  the  young, 
I'm  afraid,  Conrad.  When  I'm  older,  I  can't  say.  I  might 
be  glad  of  such  a  rescue  from  the  world's  troubles  as 
you  offer." 

"  That  is  what  they  all  tell  us,"  returned  Conrad  Hied, 
with  a  deaf  man's  precise  speech.  "  But  we  can  hardly 
be  expected  to  see  it  so.  Moravianism  is  for  every  one  ; 
that  is  what  we  say." 

"  Ah,  it  is  not  for  me!  " 

"  Nay,  you  may  feel  some  time  that  it  is.  But  we  do 
not  seek  converts — we  wish  no  one  who  does  not  feel  a 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  75 

call.     If  you  should  ever  feel  the  call,  Brother  March," 
pursued  he,  with  his  kindly  smile,  "  we  are  here." 

March  was  unconscious  how  importantly  his  association 
with  Constance  affected  her.  He  could  scarcely  imagine 
that  it  touched  her  relation  to  the  Church;  and  even  the 
Moravians  who  knew  him  best  were  loth  to  tell  him. 
Of  Mr.  Keator's  warning  to  her  none  but  the  elders 
and  the  eldresses  were  definitely  informed,  but  the 
ungossiping,  charitable  community  had  its  thoughts  ;  and 
its  members  were  of  course  perfectly  acquainted  with 
the  usual  discipline  in  such  cases,  though  it  was  seldom 
used. 

In  what  may  consist  the  indefinable  quality  of  hearti 
ness  of  manner,  the  lack  of  which  pains  us  in  friends 
and  sets  us  agrate  with  acquaintances,  is  not  so  clear  as 
the  fact  of  its  presence  or  absence.  As  to  that  no  one 
can  mistake.  It  is  merely  in  the  air,  but  the  sense  of  it 
reaches  us  without  putting  it  to  the  trouble,  like  carbonic 
acid  gas,  of  giving  us  a  headache;  and  yet  we  are  usually 
glad  to  wait  until  the  headache  proves  us  right.  March 
began  to  fancy  that  he  felt  the  want  of  this  vital  con 
stituent  of  breathable  social  air.  But  though  he  was 
confident  that  something  was  missing  from  the  former 
cordial  bearing  toward  him  of  the  people  of  the  settle 
ment,  the  wanting  thing  was  so  impalpable  that  he  was 
willing  to  believe  he  might  be  wrong,  and  he  said  to 
himself  carelessly  that  at  all  events,  if  it  existed,  it  might 
come  to  him,  for  he  had  no  idea  of  going  to  it.  If  Dr. 
Van  Cleef,  whose  long  absence  from  his  people  had 
given  him  time  to  grow  forgetful  about  their  customs — 
perhaps  even  unconsciously  careless  in  pursuance  of  the 
strict  letter  of  them — experienced  any  thing  of  the  same 
sort,  it  did  not  visibly  trouble  him  ;  and  he  would  certainly 


7 6  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

have  been  at  a  loss  to  find  reason  for  it,  since  knowledge 
of  the  proceedings  of  the  elders  had  been  kept  from  him 
by  Mr.  Keator's  wish. 

Constance  would  have  been  annoyed  if  she  had 
observed  that  March  was  less  well  seen  in  the  community 
whose  members  he  had  appeared  to  like  so  well ;  yet,  as 
she  would  not  have  treated  him  differently  to  win  the 
good-will  of  ten  times  the  number  of  persons  in  Judea 
for  herself,  she  would  not  have  done  more  to  gain  it  for 
him.  She  was  assured  that  her  course  was  right — not 
for  Eugenia  or  Florence  or  Philomena,  perhaps,  but  dis 
tinctly  right  for  Constance  ;  and  nothing — save  possibly 
her  father's  wish — could  have  caused  her  to  move  from 
it.  It  was  certainly  a  bitter  trial  of  her  resolution  when, 
within  a  week  of  her  visit  to  Sister  Zelda,  she  was  called 
quietly  before  several  of  the  elders  and  gently  questioned 
and  admonished.  She  was  only  a  girl ,  and  though  it  was 
all  done  with  as  much  care  for  her  feelings  as  was  con 
sistent  with  their  duty,  it  was  the  cruelest  ordeal  through 
which  she  had  ever  passed.  She  remembered  it  as  a 
nightmare  ;  and  she  never  met  afterward  one  of  the  elders 
who  had  put  to  her  in  a  kindly  voice  what  she  felt  to 
be  odious  questions,  without  a  shudder.  Her  arraign 
ment  had  probed  her  heart,  but  she  remembered  proudly 
that  they  had  not  been  suffered  to  know  that.  For  she 
had  not  answered  their  questions,  and  the  tremor  had 
lain  silent  in  her  throat,  not  shaming  her  in  her  voice. 

The  occurrence  did  not  cause  her  to  change  her  course; 
and  this  was  not  altogether  because  the  spirit  of  com 
bative  pride  which  spurs  us  all  at  times  to  do  foolish 
things,  out  of  mere  opposition,  was  aroused.  She  bore 
herself  toward  March  as  she  had  borne  herself  prior  to 
Mr.  Keator's  warning  and  the  elders'  admonition, 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  77 

because  if  it  was  right  to  treat  him  with  what  seemed  to 
her  the  courtesy  due  her  father's  guest  then,  it  was  not 
less  right  now.  She  had  promised  Mr.  Keator,  and  she 
endeavored  to  make  their  association  as  little  public  as 
possible  ;  but  save  for  this  concession  she  kept  calmly 
on  her  way — not  obstinately ;  she  hoped  not  vainglo- 
riously  or  in  self-will. 

And  March  did  not  know. 

He  had  begun  to  think  that  he  must  go.  Lincoln 
wrote  that  he  was  unexpectedly  detained  by  business, 
and  was  not  to  be  looked  for  within  the  week  ;  but 
March  not  unwillingly  permitted  one  thing  and  another 
to  detain  him  for  a  day  or  two,  and  presently  Dr.  Van 
Cleef  fell  ill.  Dr.  Click,  who  took  his  senior's  place 
with  his  patients  and  consulted  with  him  upon  his  own 
treatment,  seemed  not  to  think  it  a  serious  matter.  Dr. 
Van  Cleef  had  suffered  other  such  attacks,  though  pos 
sibly  none  so  severe.  It  would,  nevertheless,  be  discourt 
eous  to  leave,  and  March  remained,  assisting  as  he  might. 
Constance's  acquaintance  with  these  assaults  was  of 
long  standing,  and  she  had  learned  the  wisdom  of  that 
instructed  sympathy  which  is  content  to  leave  its  object 
largely  to  the  operation  of  quiet  and  proper  medicines. 
She  was  apparently  not  alarmed.  March  was,  therefore, 
offered  freer  rather  than  more  limited  opportunities  of 
seeing  her,  and  he  improved  them  with  proper  gallantry. 
Her  gardening,  an  employment  which  occupied  many  of 
her  hours  at  this  season,  he  usually  found  time  to  be 
present  at. 

"  What  is  it  to-day  ? "  enquired  he,  as  Constance 
emerged  from  the  tool-house  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
garden  on  a  certain  afternoon.  She  was  tying  on  an 
ample  apron,  and  carried  a  trowel  in  her  hand. 


73  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Roses.  The  lesson  this  afternoon  will  be  in  trans 
planting,"  said  she,  smiling,  as  she  gave  the  strings  of 
the  apron  a  smart  tug. 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  let  me  be  present  at  the 
demonstration." 

"  That  is  not  the  Moravian  idea,"  returned  Constance, 
cutting  with  her  trowel  an  opening  in  the  soil  for  a  rose. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " 

"  I  say  that  is  not  the  Moravian  way  of  looking  at  it," 
repeated  Constance,  smoothing  the  earth  thoughtfully 
about  her  plant.  Her  manner  toward  March,  as  has 
been  said,  was  not  changed.  Having  imagined  a  part, 
she  was  capable  of  supporting  it  to  the  ultimate  point  of 
•vraisemblance,  and  she  had  determined,  with  a  generous 
impulse  of  reparation  for  the  affront,  which  Mr.  March 
could  not  know,  that  he  should  guess  nothing  of  it  from 
her  bearing.  Upon  her  conversation,  however,  as  apart 
from  her  manner,  she  could  not  always  keep  absolute 
watch,  and  these  words  had  slipped  from  her  unawares. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  March,  at  length.  "  You  have 
an  intricate  system,  though  your  fundamental  theory  is 
so  simple.  But  I  don't  believe  the  Moravian  notion  of 
courtesy  differs  greatly  from  the  generally  received  one, 
does  it  ? " 

"  I  can't  tell  you.     Yes — it  does  in  some  ways." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

She  glanced  hesitatingly  at  him.  "  Why,  it's  not  in 
what  one  would  call  courtesy,  exactly,  that  they  differ — 
certainly  they  would  not  name  it  so.  It  is  a  part  of  their 
system — part  of  their  theory,  as  you  call  it." 

"  You  say  they  ? " 

"  They  ?    What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  March  ?  " 

"  You  speak  as  if  they  were  somehow  separate.     You 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  79 

are  one  of  them,  are  you  not  ?     Surely  you  profess  their 
faith  ? " 

"  I  !  "  cried  Constance,  turning  upon  her  trowel  as  she 
set  it  in  the  path.  "  I  scarcely  understand.  /  a  Mora 
vian." 

"  Certainly." 

She  bent  her  lustrous  eyes  upon  him.  "You  don't 
think  me  a  Moravian,  Mr.  March  ?  " 

"  Surely." 

"  Why,  no  ! "  exclaimed  she,  with  a  little  wondering 
smile,  rising  with  the  trowel  in  her  hand.  "No  !  How 
could  you  think ?  " 

His  glance  guided  her  to  her  costume.  "  Ah  !  my 
dress  !  Of  course.  How  stupid  of  me  !  But  you  didn't 
suppose  that  means  any  thing."  March  confessed  to  this 
innocence.  "  Why  that — that  I  wear  for  my  father,"  she 
told  him  seriously. 

"  But  he — surely  he  is  a  member  of  their  Church  ?  " 

"  Of  course  !  You  didn't  imagine  ? — Oh,  you  are 
very  badly  tangled,  Mr.  March." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  unravel  me,"  said  he. 

"  Why,  let  me  tell  you,"  began  the  girl,  seating  herself 
on  the  stout  monument  of  a  recently  felled  tree,  and 
balancing  the  point  of  the  trowel  on  her  knee.  She 
recited  the  facts  of  her  father's  life  as  March  already 
knew  them  from  Lincoln. 

"  My  father  married  in  New  York,  and  out  of  his  faith, 
of  course.  My  mother  was  not  a  Moravian,"  concluded 
she. 

"  But  you  ?  .  .  .  Pardon  me  !  " 

"  Ah,  you  must  tell  me,"  cried  the  girl,  sadly. 

"  I  fear  I  am  prejudiced." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered,  absently.    Then  continuing 
6 


8o  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  When  my  mother  was  dying  she  begged  father  to  come 
back  here  ;  she  knew  that  his  future  happiness  must  be 
among  his  own  people.  And  so  it  has  been.  Consider 
ing  the  extent  of  his  offense,  in  their  view,  they  received 
him — they  received  us,  very  kindly.  My  father  pur 
chased  this  place,  and  you  see  his  life.  About  their  little 
rules  and  observances  he  is  more  liberal,  I  think,  for 
having  been  of  the  world  so  long  ;  but,  in  the  main,  Mr. 
Keator,  himself,  is  not  a  more  zealous  Moravian.  He 
loves  the  Church,  though  he  broke  away  from  it  in  his 
youth  for  a  broader  field,  and  in  his  old  age  the  life  here 
has  become  very  dear  to  him.  He  is  not  expected  to 
practice  outside  the  settlement,  you  know  ;  but  as  he  is 
not  allowed  to  receive  fees,  they  often  call  upon  him 
from  the  country  about,  and  he  always  goes.  He  is  very 
happy  in  it  all.  At  least — why,  it  has  pained  him,  of 
course,  that  I  am  not  of  his  faith." 

"  But  outwardly ?  " 

"  I  wear  the  dress,  as  you  say,"  returned  she,  with  a 
deeper  melancholy,  possibly,  than  she  knew,  "  and  some 
times  I  go  to  their  church.  I  am  even  enrolled,  I  believe, 
as  a  probationary  member  of  the  congregation,"  con 
tinued  she,  with  apathy.  "  But  my  heart  is  not  in  it.  I 
have  tried,  oh,  I  have  tried  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  sudden 
energy,  and  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "  But  I  can't,  I 
can't.  Every  thing  in  me  revolts  against  it  !  " 

"  It  seems  a  very  pure  and  beautiful  faith,"  depre 
cated  March. 

"  Oh,  I  know  that  so  well  !  "  cried  Constance,  wearily. 
"  I  have  told  myself  that  very  often.  It  is  a  capital 
refuge,  is  it  not  ?  But  I  don't  want  a  refuge.  I  want 
to  live  !  I  should  like  to  see,  to  do,  to  be  !  "  exclaimed 
she,  rapturously.  "  I  want  to  plunge  into  the  midst  of 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  8 1 

things,  not  to  shelter  myself  from  them.  Some  time  I 
might  find  this  life  the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world.  But 
now — ah  !  I  long  for  experience  !  "  breathed  the  girl, 
with  sparkling  eyes. 

The  pretty  white  coif  looked  hopelessly  irrelevant ;  the 
plain  gray  gown  silently  protested  against  these  auda 
cious  sentiments. 

"  Experience  sometimes  bruises.  It  is  often  cruel," 
ventured  her  companion. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  March,  do  you  say  that  to  the  young  sol 
dier  ?  Do  you  talk  to  him  of  wounds  ?  Do  you  fancy 
he  cares  for  them  ?  He  looks  forward  to  action,  to  glory. 
He  does  not  think  of  death,"  pursued  she,  with  sympa 
thetic  scorn. 

"  I  don't  know.  If  he  is  wise,  he  looks  over  the 
ground,  he  takes  things  into  consideration. " 

Constance  glanced  at  him  speculatively. 

"  You  don't  believe  that,  Mr.  March.  I  am  sure  you 
don't ! " 

"  But  if  it  is  true  !  " 

"  Then  I  don't  want  to  be  wise.  I  want  to  be  delight 
fully  foolish,"  averred  she,  with  joyous  emphasis.  "  One 
can't  look  forward  to  a  lifetime  of  this."  She  glanced 
with  dislike  at  her  dress  and  indicated  the  line  of  gro 
tesque  roofs  just  visible  above  the  shrubbery.  "  One's 
vow  might  bind  one  to  verbal  agreement  that  this  village 
is  the  world  ;  but  it's  not.  One's  mind  has  its  own 
geography,  and  even  vows  can't  revise  it." 

She  tapped  her  trowel  thoughtfully  upon  the  stump. 

"  Of  course,  I  sympathize  with  you,"  said  March, 
earnestly.  "  But  you  must  see,  that  though  you  may  be 
in  the  right,  all  the  conditions  conspire  to  put  you  in  the 
wrong." 


82  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  like  to  aid  and  abet  rebellion  ! "  cried 
she.  "  It's  quite  right ;  I  feel  so  myself.  I  am  on  the 
side  of  submission,  however  I  may  seem  to  contradict 
it.  I  deplore  my  ideas.  I  feel  with  regret  that  I  am  a 
rebel,  and  should  like  to  suppress  my  insurrection.  I 
am  constantly  leading  out  armies  against  it  ;  but  thus 
far  the  rebel  has  the  best  of  it.  He  appears  to  carry  the 
stronger  guns." 

"  I  think  I  should  run  up  a  flag  of  truce  and  hold  a 
parley,"  laughed  March. 

"  I've  tried  that,  but  he  has  no  respect  for  the  laws  of 
war.  He  keeps  on  firing.  Seriously,  Mr.  March,  you 
understand  my  situation.  I  would  not  leave  my  father, 
of  course,  if  a  hundred  gates  stood  open  to  the  world  I 
long  for.  Yet  I  can  not  help  wishing.  We  left  New 
York,  you  see,  just  as  I  began  to  go  out  a  little.  If  I 
had  been  brought  here  as  a  child  I  should  have  known 
nothing  else,  and  might  have  been  content.  But  I  have 
had  sight  of  the  promised  land,  and  I  can  not  tell  you 
how  I  wish  to  go  down  into  it."  She  paused  with  a 
sad  smile.  "  It  seems  wicked  to  be  talking  in  this 
way.  Father  is  so  good  ;  and  we  should  be  so  very 
happy  if  this  wretched  question  of  my  faith  and  inten 
tion  could  be  put  away  from  between  us.  He  thinks 
of  it  constantly,  I  know,  though  he  will  not  urge  me. 
But  his  very  silence  is  a  reproach,  and  standing  before 
the  two  paths,  I  have  drifted  into  one  a  little  way  from 
sheer  remorse  and  sorrow  for  his  feeling." 

"  Why  not  go  on  in  it  ?  It  won't  run  directly  to 
the  Elysian  fields,  I'm  afraid,  but — but  I  am  presum 
ing—" 

"  Oh,  no.  But  you  haven't  lived  for  a  long  time 
among  these  people,  as  I  have.  I  remember  that.  It  is 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  83 

not  strange  that  it  seems  so  fine  a  thing  to  you.  I 
thought  so  at  first.  But  nothing  could  be  so  perfect  as 
Moravianism  appears.  It  is  for  the  old."  March  remem 
bered,  self-accusingly,  what  he  had  said  to  Conrad.  "  It 
has  the  quality  of  every  faith  that  separates  itself  and 
asks  renunciation  of  the  world.  It  is  sweetest  to 
the  world's  victims,  to  the  world's  failures.  You  see, 
I  am  neither  yet,  Mr.  March,"  said  she,  smiling  with 
mournful  humor. 

"  You  would  like  an  opportunity  to  be  ? " 

"  I  don't  say  that,"  she  answered,  slowly ;  but  I 
should  like  freedom  to  take  the  world  as  it  comes  to 
others.  I  can't  accept  the  protection  from  it  that  these 
good  people — they  are  very  good,  Mr.  March  ;  don't 
think  I  am  blind  to  that — could  offer  me.  That  is  their 
compensation  ;  they  have  given  up  the  world,  but  the 
world  has  surrendered  its  claim.  They  have  escaped 
its  pains  by  renouncing  its  joys.  That  is  very  well  ;  I 
only  say  that  for  me  the  reward  is  not  high  enough.  I 
am  not  sure  that,  even  if  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to 
turn  my  back  upon  life,  as  you  advise,  I  should  be  able 
to  conquer  my  feeling  about  certain  things.  Oh,  you 
don't  know,  Mr.  March  !  Think  of  the  absurdity  of 
separating  the  sexes  in  a  community  which  does  not 
forbid  marriage.  You  can't  fancy  the  stringency  of  their 
rules." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  he,  respectfully. 

"  You  know  that  the  young  men  and  women  seldom 
encounter  ;  but  can  you  imagine  how  all  intercourse, 
even  the  innocent  play  of  children,  is  abolished  ?  Why, 
Mr.  March,  if  I  were  half  as  good  a  Moravian  as  you 
thought  me,  do  you  suppose  I  could  sit  here  and  talk 
with  you  ? " 


84  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  I — why  ....  March  started  and  flushed.  "  I 
don't  know.  Why  not  ? " 

"  Ah,  that  you  must  ask  the  spirit  of  the  master-mind 
of  the  Church — Count  Zinzendorf,"  cried  she,  hastily, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  tip  of  her  boot. 

She  took  up  the  trowel  which  she  had  laid  by  her  side 
and  began  to  play  with  it  uneasily.  She  was  regretting 
her  impulsive  question. 

March  stared  at  her,  bewildered. 

"  I  scarcely  understand,  Miss  Van  Cleef.  Is  this 
what  you  meant  when  you  said ?  Have  I  been  trans 
gressing  ?  Is  there ?  Surely  there  can  be  no  rule  of 

the  settlement  which  prohibits  innocent  conversation." 

Constance  was  pulling  a  rose  to  pieces  with  down 
cast  eyes.  She  made  it  an  elaborate  operation,  survey 
ing  each  petal  critically  before  drawing  it  from  the  calyx, 
as  if  it  might  after  all  be  the  particular  petal  which 
ought  not  to  be  plucked.  She  did  not  look  up  as  she 
answered,  at  length, 

"  In — in  certain  cases." 

She  cast  away  the  naked  calyx  impatiently,  and  strove 
to  raise  her  eyes  and  confront  his  boldly,  but  a  modest 
seizure  defeated  this,  and  she  hurriedly  fixed  her  glance 
on  the  hands  she  folded  in  her  lap. 

"  I  don't  see,  Miss  Van  Cleef,"  cried  March,  in  a  mys 
tery.  "  I  won't  see.  I  should  be  afraid  to  believe  what 
you  seem  to  say.  If But  it  is  impossible,  it  is  mon 
strous.  Pray  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  he  begged,  more 
calmly.  "  You  can  certainly  make  it  plain  with  a  word. 
Say  that  word,  Miss  Van  Cleef.  There  can  be  no 
offense  ;  yet  I  must  ask  you  to — to  assure  me  that  there 
is  none."  He  laughed  painfully.  "  This  is  torturing. 
Speak  !  Say  that  I  am  a  dastard,  if  you  will.  There 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  85 

will  be  others  to  say  it,  if  it  is  true.  I  may  better  hear  it 
from  you." 

"  You  must  go  to  the  others,  Mr.  March,"  answered 
she,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  brave  smile.  "  You  mis 
construe  ;  you  misunderstand,"  she  told  him,  with  sad 
calm.  "  It  is  natural,  but  I  can't  explain,"  she  went  on, 
drearily.  "  I  can  tell  you  that  you  have  done  nothing 
unworthy  of  yourself.  But  I  can  not  say  anything  to  make 
it  clear.  It  is  too  bad  to  have  vexed  you.  I  ought  not 
to  have  spoken." 

She  ceased  quietly,  with  a  note  of  contrition,  and  March 
regarded  her  for  a  moment,  stupefied. 

"  That  is  very  well,  Miss  Van  Cleef,"  he  said,  rousing 
himself  at  length.  "  I  appreciate  your  feeling.  But  you 
can  hardly  expect  me  to  remain  satisfied  with  no  more 
explanation."  He  rose  suddenly.  "  I  am  going  in 
search  of  information,"  he  announced. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

"  I  won't  if  you  ask  me  not,"  he  said,  quickly. 

She  observed  him  questioningly  for  an  instant,  and 
breathed  a  heavy  sigh.  Then  she  dropped  her  trowel 
and  turned  from  him  on  the  stump  with  the  glitter  of 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Pray,  go  !  "  she  cried,  brokenly. 

March  glanced  at  her  with  compassion,  and  seemed 
about  to  speak.  But  he  abruptly  turned  from  her  and 
went  up  the  garden  path  with  swift  steps. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MARCH  went  out  into  the  street  silently  basking  in  the 
afternoon  sun,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  toward 
the  church  and  the  choir  houses.  They  stood  massively 
grouped  at  the  end  of  the  street  with  something  the 
appearance  of  a  castle  that  had  not  attained  its  full 
stature  ;  though  turrets  and  flying  buttresses,  gargoyles 
and  other  proper  architectural  adornments  were  abund 
antly  distributed,  and,  so  far  as  they  went,  were  genuine. 
The  stone  pile  faced  North  and  West,  and  half  enclosed 
a  species  of  court,  in  which  was  built  a  graceful  little 
chapel,  used  as  a  temporary  resting-place  for  the  dead 
while  awaiting  burial  in  the  beautiful  plot  beyond. 

March's  intention  seemed  to  volatilize  in  the  sun 
light,  for,  having  reached  Mr.  Keator's  door,  he  surveyed 
it  thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  and  turning  quickly  away, 
walked  back  toward  the  paved  approach  to  the  court 
which  he  had  just  passed.  It  was  cool  in  the  dense 
shadow  of  the  towering  masonry  as  he  went  up  the 
walk  at  the  rear  of  the  choir  houses,  but  out  in  the  ceme 
tery  the  low  graves  lay  bright  in  the  April  warmth. 

The  burial  plot  was  surrounded  by  a  paling  painted 
a  dazzling  white.  Ordinarily  the  gate  was  open,  but 
March  found  it  securely  padlocked.  There  were  other 
entrances,  one  of  which  was  doubtless  unfastened,  but 
the  young  man's  mood  at  the  moment  was  not  patient  of 
hindrances,  and,  grasping  two  pickets  firmly,  he  lifted 
himself  over  with  an  agile  impulse.  It  was  an  absurd 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  87 

manner  of  entering  a  graveyard,  he  felt  ;  but  the  touch 
of  recklessness  in  the  act  was  a  vague  relief  to  him.  He 
went  swiftly  along  one  of  the  paths,  kicking  restlessly  at 
the  occasional  twigs  which  had  escaped  the  vigilant  rakes 
of  the  brethren. 

The  enclosure  was  called  a  cemetery,  and  this  was  cer 
tainly  its  use,  but  the  casual  glance  would  have  sup 
posed  it  a  scrupulously  kept  park.  The  evidences  of  its 
real  character  were  neither  profuse  nor  obtrusive,  and 
one's  feeling  in  alighting  upon  them  would  have  been 
rather  a  surprised  pleasure  than  the  unreasoning  chill  that 
commonly  shames  one  in  the  presence  of  like  emblems. 
The  slabs  of  slate  lay  above  the  graves,  instead  of  stand 
ing  to  proclaim  their  presence,  and  the  inscriptions  upon 
them  were  meagre.  Dense  growths  of  thyme  all  but  hid 
these  modest  records  of  good  lives  ;  but  nothing  else 
was  allowed  to  grow  densely.  The  trees  and  shrubs 
were  lopped  back,  and  the  sunshine  was  everywhere.  The 
low  paling  did  not  emphasize  the  limits  of  the  ground. 
There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  there  was  a  willow  in 
the  enclosure  ;  and  one  trusted  the  affirmation  that  the 
birds  gathered  more  thickly  here  than  elsewhere  was 
something  better  than  an  engaging  legend.  In  this 
pretty  park  much  of  the  village  leisure  was  spent.  The 
housewives  passed  their  infrequent  vacant  hours 
knitting  and  gossiping  upon  the  numerous  benches. 
They  brought  their  children  too,  and  let  them  play  in  the 
paths.  No  one  who  came  to  the  place  thought  it  need 
ful  to  bring  a  gloomy  mood  with  him  ;  and  this  was 
both  because  the  enclosure  was  so  little  like  a  burial 
plot,  and  because  the  Moravians  harbor  no  mean  and 
craven  thought  of  death.  Death  to  them  is  in  the  nature 
of  a  joyful  culmination  of  years  of  placid  preparing — yet 


88  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

not  as  an  escape  from  life,  which  to  their  sense  is  a 
felicitous  and  grateful  season,  a  long  opportunity  of 
gladness. 

March  found  the  cemetery  deserted.  He  seated  him 
self  on  one  of  the  benches  and  remained  for  some  time 
gazing  rather  vengefully  into  vacancy.  It  was  obvious 
that  he  had  been  guilty  of  an  offence,  an  indiscretion,  a 
mistake — what  one  would  ;  but  the  nature  of  it  was  by 
no  means  so  clear.  Whatever  its  character,  it  was 
unfortunately  certain  that  it  touched  Miss  Van  Cleef. 
He  reflected  that  he  might  have  gone  away  unconsciously 
stained  by  it ;  and  he  was  properly  grateful  for  the  acci 
dent  which  had  kept  him.  There  were  doubtless  numer 
ous  persons  who  might  resolve  his  difficulty  ;  indeed 
that  might  prove  the  least  tolerable  feature  of  his  posi 
tion.  Possibly  the  very  boys  held  the  key  ;  all  the 
society  might  have  been  looking  on  at  his  stupidity — 
wondering,  waiting  for  him  to  learn  his  error.  March 
felt  like  a  blind  man  who  has  been  suffered  to  walk 
steadily  on  toward  an  obstruction  without  warning  from 
the  gaping  bystanders.  He  stared  aimlessly  at  a  young 
flowering  shrub  before  him,  which  would  be  a  gay  point 
of  color  later,  but  now  was  only  beginning  to  feel  the 
amiable  Spring  in  its  juices,  and  doubtfully  decorating 
itself  with  green,  and  wished  he  knew  some  one  who 
could  and  would  tell  him  all  he  wanted  to  know. 

A  figure  entered  at  one  of  the  gates  and  passed 
spectrally  before  his  preoccupied  vision.  As  he  went  by, 
on  a  path  beyond,  March  recognized  him.  He  called  his 
name,  and  Conrad  Hied,  turning  with  his  ready  smile, 
perceived  him,  and  picking  his  way  between  the  graves 
came  over  and  stood  before  him. 

"  You  have  been   drawn  here,  also,  Brother  March  ? 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  89 

We  all  love  the  cemetery,  but  we  would  suppose  you 
might  find  it  lonely.  Some  do  not  have  our  thoughts  of 
death,  you  know,"  apologized  the  young  brother. 

"  Conrad,"  said  March,  irrelevantly,  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  something  ;  or  rather,"  smiled  he,  self-convictingly, 
"  I  want  to  know  something  which  I  don't  greatly  want 
to  ask  you." 

"  It  will  be  very  pleasing — 

"  Sit  down  with  me  for  a  moment,  Conrad.  Tell  me 
plainly — "  said  he,  sitting  erect  and  turning  toward  him 
on  the  bench,  "  I  know  you  hedge  the  relations  of  your 
brethren  and  sisters  in  a  general  way — but  do  you  pro 
hibit  all  intercourse  ?  frankly,  do  you  forbid  conversa 
tion  between  them  ? " 

Conrad  blushed  painfully. 

"  Not — not  exactly  as  you  may  say  forbid—  we  do  not 
encourage  it." 

"  If  you,  as  a  postulant — an  intending  priest  of  your 
Church — were  to  see  an  unmarried  brother  and  sister 
pause  in  the  street  below  there  to  speak  to  each  other, 
what  would  you  think  your  duty  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Conrad,  doubtfully.  "  You 
put  hard  questions." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  look  for  soft  answers,  Conrad.  I 
am  merely  engaged  in  a  little  hunt  for  truth.  Let  me 
make  it  easier  for  you  : — suppose  you  saw  them  repeat 
such  an  action  ? " 

"  I  should  feel  it  right  to  speak  to  Mr.  Keator  of  it," 
replied  the  young  man. 

"  The  rule  seems  clear,  at  all  events,"  said  March. 

"  It  is  not  what  you  could  call  a  rule — not  that 
exactly,"  returned  Conrad,  hastening  his  slow  speech  ; 
"  it  is  a  custom." 


90  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT 

"With  the  force  of  a  rule." 

"  Rule  ? "  inquired  Conrad,  straining  to  hear.  "  We 
have  not  any  rule  but  love,"  said  he,  quaintly. 

"  One  would  say  rather  that  you  have  every  rule  but 
love." 

Conrad  scrutinized  his  companion's   face  in  distress. 

"  I  mean  nothing  to  the  discredit  of  your  people," 
said  March.  "  I  intend  to  say  that  your  customs  do 
not  encourage  marriage." 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  Conrad,  his  round,  deep-set  eyes 
brightening  with  comprehension.  "But  we  wish  to 
encourage  marriage." 

"  By  keeping  a  high  wall  between  your  men  and 
women  ? " 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  know,  Brother  March  ? " 

"  What  ? " 

"  Our  mode  of  forming  what  the  world  calls  '  engage 
ments.'  ' 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  know,  Conrad,"  said  March, 
with  a  note  of  deeper  seriousness  in  his  voice  ;  and 
rising  nervously,  he  stood  in  the  gravel  path  confront 
ing  the  young  brother. 

"Our  marriages  are  made  by  lot,"  said  Conrad,  look 
ing  up  at  him  anxiously  from  his  lower  height.  "  I 
thought  you  knew  that." 

"  By  lot  ?  Do  you  mean —  ?  Why,  what  do  you  mean, 
Conrad  ?  "  cried  March,  stupidly. 

Conrad  put  his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"  Lot  ?  Yes,  lot.  It  seems  as  if  it  was  quite  simple 
to  us.  We  have  known  it  so  long,  perhaps.  When  one 
of  the  brethren  wishes  to  marry,  the  Eldress  of  the  Sin 
gle  Sisters'  Choir  presents  a  list  to  the  Conference.  The 
lot  tells  us  which  sister  our  Lord  wills  to  be  his  wife  ;  or 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  91 

if  the  brother  should  feel  a  preference  the  lot  is  first  tried 
for  the  sister  that  he  names.  That  is  all." 

"  That  is  a  great  deal,"  commented  March,  briefly. 

"  Yes,  it  seems  strange  to  you,  Brother  March,  I  sup 
pose,"  said  Conrad,  regarding  him  with  a  questioning 
smile.  "  It  is  very  dear  to  us — to  most  of  us.  Some 
times  the  young  people  find  it  hard  ;  but  in  the  end  they 
most  always  bear  the  yoke  without  much  complaint.  It 
is  their  training,  I  should  guess.  We  are  taught  to  sub 
mit  ourselves  from  the  first,  and  it  conies  easy  after 
awhile.  If  their  wishes  stand  in  the  way  of  our  Saviour's 
will,  they  generally  feel  it  a  privilege  to  subdue  them. 
They  are  not  forced  to,  of  course,  but  they  feel  it  a  call — a 
direct  call,  as  you  might  say  ;  and  they  mostly  obey." 

"  But  the  two  do  not  know  each  other.  It  is  like  a 
royal  marriage  or  a  Turkish  marriage." 

"  That  may  be  ;  I  do  not  know  about  them.  But  the 
folks  concerned  belong  to  the  same  society  ;  they  do 
not  differ  much  in  their  feelings.  As  to  their  knowing 
each  other,  it  is  true  that  we  can  not  countenance  that  ; 
but  I  have  heard,"  continued  Conrad,  quizzically,  "that 
even  in  the  world  folks  mostly  do  not  know  those  they 
marry.  They  know  their  husks,  as  you  might  say.  And 
our  brethren  and  sisters  know  that  ;  they  see  each  other 
in  church.  But  summering  and  wintering,  as  the  saying 
is  :  that  is  the  only  sure  test." 

Conrad  rose  and  stood  beside  his  companion  with  his 
instant  smile. 

"  They  tell  us  so,"  returned  March,  glancing  medita 
tively  at  the  involved  melody  of  the  name  of  an  Indian 
convert  inscribed  on  a  stone  behind  the  bench. 

He  took  Conrad's  arm  and  they  walked  together  down 
the  path. 


92  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

11 1  suppose  you  know  that  you  have  surprised  me, 
Conrad,"  he  said,  "  but  you  can't  fancy  how  much.  I 
never  heard  of  any  thing  of  the  kind  before.  I — I've  not 
been  counting  upon  it.  It  opens  long  vistas  of  reflec 
tion.  I've  scarcely  entered  them  yet.  I  could  not  tell 
you  all  I  think." 

"  You  must  not  think  any  thing  unpleasant  of  us, 
Brother  March." 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  not." 

"  We  do  not  usually  speak  of  these  things  to  the  peo 
ple  who  come  to  us  from  outside.  They  do  not  see 
them  as  we  do.  Their  eyes  look  another  way.  I  sup 
pose  most  eyes  look  different  ways  ;  we  try  to  make 
allowances  for  that.  But  I  thought  I  ought  to  tell 
you." 

"  Why  me,  Conrad  ? " 

The  young  Moravian  gave  him  the  vacant  look  of  the 
deaf. 

"  Why  tell  me  more  than  another  ?  "  repeated  March. 

"  You  ?  Oh — I  do  not  know.  You  was  asking,  was 
you  not  ?  " 

"  I  asked  about  your  customs  among  the  unmar 
ried  ? " 

"  Well,  that  was  it.     You  seemed  interested." 

"  I  was.     It  explains  a  great  deal." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose.  I  felt  it  was  right  to  make  it  clear 
to  you.  You  have  always  looked  at  us  friendly,  as  you 
might  say.  You  would  never  have  us  in  derision  like 
some.  I  thought  you  ought  to  know,"  he  repeated, 
inconclusively,  and  turned  his  troubled  face  away. 

March  stopped  short  in  the  path,  and  taking  his  com 
panion's  shoulder,  brought  him  gently  to  face  him. 

"  Conrad,  you  mean  more." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  93 

The  brother  bowed  his  flaxen  head,  and  the  crimson 
dyed  his  fair  German  skin. 

"  Do  not,  Brother  March." 

"  I  must.  I  want  the  truth  now.  You  have  all  stood 
by  and  let  me  go  on  making  a  fool  of  myself  before  you 
too  long.  I  don't  know  what  I've  done.  I'm  not  con 
scious  of  any  wrong.  But  if  there  is  one,  let  me  know, 
that  I  may  remedy  it,  or  at  least  meet  you  fairly.  This 
blundering  in  the  dark  is  intolerable.  Don't  think  that 
keeping  the  light  from  me  is  a  charity  ;  it's  a  cruelty. 
You  have  the  light,  Conrad.  Show  it  me." 

"  I  would  rather  not,  Brother  March." 

"  Then  there  is  something.     You  admit  that." 

"  N — no,  not  exactly.  There  is  nothing  that  you  are 
wrong  in.  I  meant  to  tell  you  !  "  cried  Conrad,  in  dis 
tress.  "  That  is  true.  But  I  can  not  now.  Indeed,  I 
ask  your  pardon,  Brother  March,  for  not  having  been 
more  fair  with  you,  as  you  might  say.  I  did  almost 
deceive  you,  I  suppose.  I  can  not  see  as  it  is  much  better 
just  not  to  tell  the  truth  than  to  speak  falsely.  But  I 
could  not  tell  you  ;  I  did  not  know  how  you  would  take 
it,  and  anyway,  it  was  not  for  you  to  trouble  about  it." 

•'Not  for  me?  I  don't  understand.  For  whom, 
then  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  must  not  say." 

March  turned  impatiently  and  walked  on. 

"  You  are  right,  Conrad.     You  are  not  fair." 

Conrad  was  sadly  silent.  He  took  off  his  broad  hat 
and  mopped  his  forehead.  They  walked  on  for  a 
moment  without  speaking.  As  they  went  into  one  of  the 
narrow,  tributary  paths,  the  blare  of  trumpets  smote  the 
air,  and  a  funeral  concourse  appeared  at  the  further  end 
of  the  avenue  next  them.  March  remembered  he  had 


94  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT, 

heard  the  band's  harmonious  requiem  for  a  death,  from 
the  church  tower,  a  day  or  two  before.  A  young  girl  was 
apparently  to  be  buried,  for,  behind  the  musicians,  eight 
maidens,  preceded  by  the  Eldress  of  their  Choir,  walked 
beside  the  bier.  Their  white  raiment,  which  was  not  less 
the  costume  of  the  mourners  behind,  was  delicately  inter 
pretative  of  the  current  sense  of  the  event.  Even  the 
usual  colored  ribbon  which  fastened  the  cap  was  dis 
placed,  in  the  case  of  those  most  directly  interested,  by  a 
tie  of  white. 

The  two  young  men  drew  aside  and  watched  the  sol 
emn  procession.  Arrived  at  the  grave,  the  company 
separated  as  usual  ;  the  men  taking  their  stand  upon  one 
side,  the  women  remaining  upon  the  other.  The 
trumpets  ceased  as  the  bearers  deposited  the  pall  by  the 
grave,  and  a  sweet  soprano  raised  her  voice  in  a  hymn 
which  all  presently  joined  in  singing.  In  the  trees  above, 
the  robins  maintained  their  own  chirruping  chorus,  and  one 
of  them  which  had  been  running  along  near  the  open  pit, 
dipping  noisily  at  the  humid  earth,  perched  confidently 
upon  the  coffin,  which  stood  a  little  removed  from  the 
gathering,  and  twittering  for  an  instant  in  the  face  of  the 
mourners,  swept  on  a  fresh  flight  through  the  balmy 
morning  air.  March  touched  Conrad's  arm,  and,  by  a 
mutual  impulse,  they  withdrew  silently  by  the  path  up 
which  they  had  come,  while  the  sad,  final  words,  in  Mr. 
Keator's  gentle  voice,  followed  them  through  the  still 
ness.  Both  were  moved  by  the  incident  ;  in  its  light 
their  colloquy  cheapened  and  faded,  so  that  recurrence 
to  the  subject  of  it  seemed  a  kind  of  impropriety. 

As  they  paused  outside  the  gate  furthest  from  the 
church,  "Are  you  going  to  the  Gemcin  Hans  ?  "  asked 
Conrad. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  95 

"  I  don't  know.     It's  Easter-even,  isn't  it  ?     Yes." 

"  Do  not." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Do  not,"  repeated  Conrad,  precisely. 

March  regarded  him  with  interest  for  a  moment. 

"  Explain  yourself,  Conrad,"  he  said,  calmly. 

Conrad  glanced  about  him  in  doubt. 

"  I  would  rather  not,  Brother  March,"  returned  he. 

"  You  have  said  that  before." 

"  I  know  it  ;  I  can  not  help  it,"  cried  he,  wringing  his 
hands. 

"  You  can  scarcely  expect  me  to  heed  an  unreasoned 
request  like  that,"  he  told  him,  gravely.  "  Caesar  him 
self  refused  to  do  that,"  he  added,  with  forced  lightness. 

"  I  was  afraid  it  would  be  this  way,"  exclaimed  the 
young  man.  "  I  do  not  know  what  I  can  say." 

"  You  might  tell  me  what  you  mean,  for  one  thing," 
said  March,  kindly. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  I  can,"  moaned  Conrad. 

March  moved  nearer  and  confronted  him. 

"  Is  it  wrong  that  I  should  be  there  ?     What  is  it  ? " 

"  No,  I  can  not  rightly  say  that." 

"  There  is  no  danger,  surely  ? " 

"  No,  no — oh,  no  !  "  he  answered,  wearily. 

"  Conrad,"  demanded  March,  with  weight,  "  is  it  not 
my  duty  to  be  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  !  "  cried  he,  with  helpless  honesty. 
"  You  might  think  so." 

"  Then  come,"  said  March,  briefly. 
7 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FROM  the  high  stoops  that  clung  against  the  sides  of 
the  dwellings,  groups  variously  assorted  and  characterized 
were  issuing.  All  were  on  their  way  to  the  church,  but 
the  fact  seemed  not  to  invite  special  clothing  of  body  or 
self-consciousness.  The  families — from  which  the 
absence  of  young  men  and  women  was  noticeable — chat 
ted  with  serene  gayety.  The  children,  though  as  blithe 
some  as  profaner  little  people,  were  not  boisterous,  and 
all  moved  down  the  village  street  at  a  gait  of  peaceful 
ease.  At  the  entrance  to  the  comely  church  of  blue 
limestone  the  talk  suddenly  ceased,  and  the  clusters 
separating  with  silent  precision,  the  men  and  women 
entered  by  their  respective  doors. 

The  congregation  was  still  gathering  when  March  and 
Conrad  came  in  and  seated  themselves  near  the  entrance 
among  the  benches  allotted  to  their  sex.  Conrad's  face 
wore  a  far-away  look  that  strove  to  be  purely  devotional. 
March  gave  himself  up  for  the  moment  to  observation  of 
the  clumps  of  twos  and  threes  advancing  along  the 
women's  aisle  with  a  reverent  thoughtfulness  in  their 
eyes  that  might  have  lent  a  glamour  to  duller  faces.  The 
door  gave  at  length  before  the  touch  of  a  young  girl,  at 
sight  of  whom  March's  face  faintly  lighted.  Constance 
paused  a  moment  to  remove  a  wrap,  and  the  congrega 
tion  seemed  at  once  aware  of  her  presence  by  the  kind  of 
clairvoyance,  in  which  even  the  decorous  Moravian  con- 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  97 

sciousness  will  sometimes  forget  itself.  An  occasional 
matron  stirred  uneasily  in  her  seat  and  would  not  turn, 
several  of  them  did  turn,  and  the  children  looked  around 
to  a  child.  As  she  took  her  way  up  the  bare,  sanded 
path  between  the  benches,  the  eyes  that  had  ruled  them 
selves  until  she  was  within  seemly  vision,  followed  her  to 
her  seat  near  the  front  with  kindly  curiosity.  After  she 
had  taken  her  place  certain  eyes  pursued  her  with  unsat 
isfied  but  always  tender  interest.  The  glances,  of  what 
ever  character,  had  a  touch  of  compassion. 

The  doors  opened  on  either  side  simultaneously,  and 
orderly  bands  of  young  men  and  women  filed  up  the 
two  aisles  and  swiftly  found  their  seats.  The  widows, 
who  presently  entered  together,  were  not  distinguished 
in  dress  from  those  with  whom  the  conjugal  tie  was 
unbroken,  save  by  the  white  cap  ribbons. 

The  scene  was  of  a  curious  picturesqueness.  Dark 
ness  had  begun  to  fall,  and  a  vague  and  reluctant  light 
glimmered  from  the  sperm-oil  lamps,  and  cast  itself  in 
narrow  patches  upon  the  congregation.  In  the  corners 
it  was  shadowy  enough  for  the  children  to  imagine  ghosts, 
and  indeed  certain  spectral  figures  flitted  in  this  region 
from  time  to  time,  which  might  very  well  have  been  the 
disembodied  spirits  of  the  placid  brethren  of  an  earlier 
day.  Where  the  light  dwelt  brightly  it  commonly  showed 
a  face  from  which  the  Moravian  life  seemed  to  have  puri 
fied  earthly  grossness.  Doubtless  the  simple  beauty  of 
attire  may  have  had  a  share  in  this  effect — certainly 
among  the  women.  Their  dress  was  not  intentionally 
uniform  ;  there  was  no  invariable  society  garb.  But 
individual  taste  failed  rather  pathetically  within  the 
limits  imposed  by  the  use  of  quiet  colors,  and  the  scanty 
variety  of  fabrics  brought  to  the  unworldly  village  by  the 


98  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

semi-weekly  stage.  So,  though  there  were  trifling  idio 
syncrasies  of  costume,  as  futile  as  the  fashion  of  wearing 
the  beautiful  neckdress  common  to  all,  or  the  manner  of 
belting  the  waist — such  things  as  no  woman,  not  in 
fact  translated,  ought  to  be  asked  to  forego— there 
resulted  a  certain  sameness  of  apparel.  Yet  it  was 
clearly  the  prettiest  dress  in  the  world,  and  that  must 
have  been  a  vain  spirit  which  could  wish  to  meddle  with 
the  essentials  of  its  monotony.  Looking  down  the  aisle 
now,  before  the  beginning  of  the  service,  March  admired 
for  the  hundredth  time  its  courageous  primitiveness.  In 
the  uncertain  light  the  pure  caps  and  kerchiefs  attracted 
the  lamp  glow,  making  a  radiance  about  themselves  ; 
and  they  were  grateful  points  in  the  mystery  of  the  centre 
of  the  church  which  the  illumination  failed  to  reach. 

The  wind  instruments  bleated  gentle  announcement 
and  Mr.  Keator  pushed  open  a  door  and  came  upon  the 
platform,  followed  by  a  company  of  elders  and  eld- 
resses.  As  they  took  seats  with  him,  the  music  caught  a 
bolder  note  and  swelled  into  one  of  Haydn's  harmonies. 
When  it  was  finished  the  pastor  rose  and  read  a  chapter 
from  St.  Paul  in  the  gentle  voice  whose  just  accents 
nevertheless  reached  his  remotest  hearer.  The  singing 
which  followed  was  alternate  between  the  men  and 
women,  relieved,  occasionally,  by  the  choir.  Mr.  Kea- 
tor's  reading  of  the  Litany  was  not  mere  elocution,  but 
a  fervent  prayer,  and  the  simple  ritual  took  new  meaning 
from  his  earnestness.  His  sermon  was  delivered  from  a 
meagre  collection  of  notes  to  which  he  returned  from 
time  to  time  as  he  spoke  to  his  people.  It  had  the 
direct  eloquence  of  conversation  ;  it  was  rather  a  talk 
than  an  harangue.  He  argued,  persuaded,  sympathized  ; 
he  rehearsed  the  Easter  story  and  made  its  application 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT,  99 

to  their  lives.  He  seemed  talking  in  secret  with  each  of 
the  souls  that  looked  up  at  him  through  rapt  eyes.  It 
was  not  a  formalist,  not  a  man  doubtful  of  his  faith, 
uncommissioned  to  his  office,  who  spoke  with  them. 
His  manner  had  the  uncounterfeitable  quality  of  conse 
cration. 

As  he  finished,  Mr.  Keator  retired  behind  the  plain 
deal  table  which  was  pulpit  and  lecturn  for  this  plain 
band  of  Christians,  and  leaning  his  crutch  against  it  bal 
anced  for  a  moment  on  his  out-spread  finger-tips  in  a 
kind  of  sad  dreaminess.  With  a  start  he  returned  to 
memory  and  rather  awkwardly  gave  out  the  final  hymn. 
During  the  singing  of  this  the  congregation,  which  had 
listened,  to  the  sermon,  forgetful  of  temporal  matters  of 
immediate  interest,  grew  curiously  restless.  A  single, 
magnetic  sense,  too  volatile  for  analysis,  often  pervades 
large  gatherings.  It  is  not  a  thing  which  a  spectator 
can  define,  but  his  perception  of  its  existence  is  not  to 
be  argued  .with  ;  perhaps  even  the  members  of  such  bod 
ies  could  not  always  interpret  their  emotion.  The,sub- 
conscious  sentiment  stirring  this  company,  was,  perhaps, 
one  of  expectancy.  As  the  song  ended  and  the  quiver 
ing  Amen  rose  in  chorus,  Mr.  Keator  stepped  forward 
with  an  uncertain  look  that  at  once  besought  aid  and 
proudly  put  it  away;  but  instead  of  raising  his  hands 
above  his  flock  for  benison  he  took  his  former  attitude 
at  the  table  and  stood  for  a  moment  glancing  undeterm- 
inedly  about  and  leaning  heavily  on  his  crutch.  His 
eyes  told  over  the  men  and  women  before  him  one  by 
one  ;  they  circled  round  the  dim-lit  church  twice,  but 
refused  to  inform  him  of  a  certain  corner  directly  beneath 
him.  He  seemed  at  length  to  compel  himself  to  look, 
and  his  gaze  challenged  Constance's  face,  wistfully. 


TOO  A  VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

She  was  either  unconscious  of  his  glance  or  would 
not  betray  her  perception  of  it,  and  the  minister  turned 
away,  wearily.  He  gave  a  mild  cough  and  made  as  if 
he  would  begin  to  speak,  but  his  usual  pallor  sensibly 
deepened  and  he  went  back  to  Elder  Weiss,  who  sat 
next  the  pastoral  chair,  and  appeared  to  entreat  him. 
The  Elder  nodded,  and  coming  forward  took  his  place, 
while  Mr.  Keator,  seating  himself  with  the  aid  of  his 
crutch,  regarded  the  scene  in  a  species  of  anxious  apathy. 

The  ready  confidence  of  the  Elder  was  in  contrast  with 
the  minister's  manner.  He  was  seemingly  not  harassed 
by  sentiment  of  any  kind,  but,  launching  a  glance  toward 
Constance,  moved  glibly  into  his  vicarious  undertaking. 
The  people  listened  with  unconcealed  eagerness. 

"  Our  pastor  and  brother,"  he  began,  "  does  not  feel 
equal  at  the  moment  to  the  discharge  of  his  painful  duty. 
Christ,  whose  cross  he  bears  in  these  regions,  sees  fit  to 
chasten  him,  and  he  does  not  enjoy  the  health  that  most 
of  our  dear  brethren  and  sisters  are  blessed  with." 

His  look  dwelt  with  unconscious  complacency  for  an 
instant  on  his  own  sleek  form  ;  then  he  pursued  fluently  : 

"  The  Conference  had  a  hard  question  brought  before 
it  at  its  last  session.  I  suppose  we  might  say  it  is  owing 
to  the  presence  of  a  stranger  in  our  settlement."  A 
flutter  of  excitement  passed  over  the  congregation,  to  the 
subtle  flattery  of  which  Elder  Weiss  was  not  dead.  "  We 
can  not  blame  him,"  he  went  on,  apparently  finding  the 
orator's  reward  in  his  work.  "  I  should  suppose  we 
hardly  had  the  right.  He  is  probably  ignorant  of  some 
features  of  our  system  and  we  ought  to  give  him  the  ben 
efit  of  the  doubt.  We  are  taught  that  when  circumstan 
ces  bring  to  our  knowledge  one  of  Christ's  children  he 
should  at  once  become  estimable  and  dear  to  us.  But  of 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  IOI 

course  we  must  protect  ourselves.  That  we  shall  do  by 
measures  among  our  flock.  As  for  him,"  said  the  Elder, 
largely,  "  we  desire  only  to  state  the  facts,  believing 
that  he  will  feel  to  do  the  right  thing."  Then,  pausing 
a  moment  to  recover  from  the  colloquial  lapse  of  his  last 
phrase  :  "  But  our  chief  business  on  this  eve  of  our  Sav 
iour's  resurrection  is  not  with  him.  Sister  Constance 
Van  Cleef,"  he  commanded,  raising  his  voice  and  throw 
ing  into  it  an  awful  reproof,  "  you  will  please  rise." 

Constance,  who  had  been  regarding  him  with  amaze 
ment,  now  stared  at  him  in  helpless  horror.  Surely  he 
could  not  mean  it.  The  instant  during  which  she  hesi 
tated  seemed  to  March  an  eternity.  He  expected  her 
to  rise  and  leave  the  church.  He  could  imagine  how 
she  would  do  it.  Instead  he  saw  her  slip  off  the  mantle 
with  which  she  had  covered  herself,  as  if  she  had  taken 
a  resolution,  and  rise  mechanically  out  of  its  folds.  The 
calm,  steadfast  gaze  with  which  she  confronted  Elder 
Weiss  seemed  to  March  wholly  admirable.  The  Elder's 
demand  was  stricken  under  it  with  commonplace.  It 
might  have  been  a  tragedy,  but  her  passionless  face 
seemed  to  say  that  she  had  come  prepared  for  just  this 
ordeal.  Nothing  else  upheld  this  supposition,  however, 
and  March  knew  sadly  its  error.  When  the  Elder  had 
first  called  upon  her  he  had  not  obeyed  his  inclination 
in  keeping  his  seat ;  and  he  beheld  marveling  the  proud 
motions  of  the  girl  which  made  assistance  ridiculous. 
Ah,  yes  !  Lady  Amprey  was  right.  She  knew  very  well 
whither  she  was  going.  The  Elder  stood  hesitating 
before  her  manner  and  she  glanced  swiftly  over  the  large 
gathering.  The  people  met  her  gaze  with  looks  of  min 
gled  accusation  and  pity,  and  she  turned  at  once  from 
them  and  waited  for  the  Elder  to  go  on,  with  still  hauteur. 


102  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Before  this  the  company  visibly  humbled.  She  was 
indeed  a  sumptuous  figure  as  she  stood  motionless  in 
the  wan  glare  of  the  lamps  above  her.  Her  erect,  daunt 
less  attitude  clothed  the  Moravian  garb  for  the  moment 
with  an  especial  dignity  and  significance  ;  and  March, 
who  had  once  said  to  himself  that  she  was  not  pretty, 
wondered  at  his  fatuity.  For  the  space  of  the  few  rapid 
seconds  that  passed  before  Elder  Weiss  continued,  she 
was  something  infinitely  finer. 

"  It  is  upon  you,  Sister  Van  Cleef,"  pursued  the  Elder, 
"  that  reproof  falls.  We  can  not  expect  so  much  from  a 
stranger,  though  we  mean  that  he  shall  understand  our 
rules  ;  but  those  within  the  fold  can  not  plead  ignorance. 
It  is  with  them,  and  with  every  one  of  them,  that  the 
cause  of  Christ  here  upon  earth,  in  however  small  degree, 
rests  ;  and  they  can  not  evade  their  sacred  charge."  The 
Elder  warmed  with  his  eloquence  :  "  It  is  a  blessed  priv 
ilege,  but  it  has  its  responsibilities.  One  of  these  we 
understand  to  be  obedience  to  the  Church.  The  Church's 
laws  spring  purely  from  the  word  of  God.  They  aim  to 
fulfill  his  will  here  in  this  temporary  state  as  far  as  we 
can  learn  it,  and  you,  Sister,  however  you  may  have 
fallen  into  the  wrong,  will  not  deny  that  it  is  your  duty 
to  obey  your  Saviour's  commandments.  A  whole  series 
of  these,  as  the  Church  interprets  them,  relates  to  mar 
riage."  His  hearers  started.  "  I  shall  speak  plainly. 
The  concern  and  even  the  presence  of  a  stranger  must 
not  affect  our  usual  way  in  these  matters. 

"  When  your  father,  Brother  Van  Cleef — who  we  learn 
with  regret  is  unwell — received  Mr.  March  " — a  keener 
quiver  of  agitation  ran  through  the  assembly  at  this  open 
mention  of  the  name,  and  Constance  shuddered  uncon 
trollably — "  into  his  house  as  a  guest,"  pursued  the 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  103 

Elder,  placidly,  "  we  did  not  object.  Our  theory  as  to 
strangers  and  respecting  the  proprieties  of  hospitality 
partly  restrained  us.  If  your  own  position  toward  the 
Church,  however,  Sister  Van  Cleef,  had  been  more  clearly 
denned,  we  should  not  have  hesitated.  These  considera 
tions  would  have  been  overriden,  and  Mr.  March  would 
have  been  taken  to  the  tavern,  or  permitted  to  dwell  for 
the  time  with  some  brother  not  having  a  young  woman 
in  his  household." 

The  Elder  paused,  as  if  to  emphasize  the  crudity  of 
this  mode  of  statement,  and  here  and  there  a  head  turned 
and  glanced  sympathetically  at  March.  When  this  exor 
dium  had  begun  he  had  sat  listening  fearfully,  with  a 
memory  of  Conrad's  warning ;  as  Elder  Weiss  named 
him  to  her,  he  clutched  his  companion's  knee  in  silent 
anger.  He  heard  him  now  through  a  stupor  in  which  he 
could  not  command  his  immobile  limbs,  nor  turn  away 
the  eyes  which  bent  upon  the  Elder  in  concentrated  out 
rage. 

"  You  have  declined,"  the  Elder  went  on,  "  to  asso 
ciate  yourself  with  the  Choir  of  Single  Sisters ;  and 
though  you  are  a  probationary  member  of  the  Church 
and  wear  our  dress,  you  do  not  regularly  attend  our 
meetings.  You  have,  therefore,  not  been  held  by  the 
Conference  to  a  strict  accountability  as  our  dear  sisters 
of  the  full  communion.  Your  association  with  the  young 
men  of  the  settlement  of  your  own  age  has  not  been 
especially  hindered  except  by  your  father's  judgment, 
though  in  this  we  must  fairly  own  that  you  have  not 
hitherto  overstepped.  But  for  our  own  protection,  as  I 
have  said,  we  must  set  a  limit,  and  in  the  case  as  to  which 
I  am  now  speaking,  we  have  felt  bound  to.  Our  dear 
pastor,"  said  he,  turning  to  Mr.  Keator,  whose  face, 


104  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

however,  was  hidden  by  his  hand,  and  who  stretched  one 
arm  toward  him  imploringly,  "  was  instructed  by  the 
Conference  to  warn  you.  This,  as  you  know,  he  did. 
You  have  fully  understood,  and  you  have  gone  on  per 
sistently — audaciously,  I  may  say  in  the  face  of  the 
Church's  commands.  We  have  no  alternative.  Your 
relation  with  this  young  man  may  mean  nothing  or  not ; 
we  do  not  know.  But  the  example  which  it  holds  up 
before  the  young  people  " — here  he  turned  to  the  class 
designated,  as  they  sat  grouped  on  either  side  the  aisle 
behind  her — "  is  dangerous  in  the  extreme.  Moreover, 
the  Church  has  especial  ordinances,  as  you  know,  apply 
ing  to  strangers.  One  of  these  forbids  the  marriage  of  a 
member  of  the  society  with  a  stranger,  another  clandes 
tine  betrothals.  Now  we '  « 

The  girl,  who  up  to  this  time  had  stood  bravely  con 
fronting  him  with  haggard  fixity,  sank  abruptly  in  an 
impotent  heap  to  the  bench.  "  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  she 
moaned,  in  anguish.  The  congregation  waited,  breath 
less.  Her  head  fell  forward  and  some  of  the  sisters 
near  sprang  toward  her  compassionately,  thinking  her 
faint.  As  they  clustered  about  the  bench,  however,  she 
leaped  up  with  a  hard,  dry  sob,  and  waving  them  off 
with  broken  queenliness  took  her  way  swiftly  down  the 
sanded  aisle.  On  the  steps  without  she  encountered 
March. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CONSTANCE  would  not  recognize  the  bitter,  angry  tears, 
through  which  she  looked  bravely  at  him.  March  came 
quickly  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand,  with  eager  sym 
pathy. 

"  Don't  mind  it,  Miss  Van  Cleef.  It  was  horrible,  but 
you  will  keep  your  courage.  The  sun  is  still  shining  ; 
the  earth  continues  to  revolve.  Things  seem  black  and 
strange  to  you,  I  suppose,  but  they  are  the  same,  and 
you — you  are  the  same.  Do  you  think  that  what  one 
man  may  say  can  really  change  you  to  yourself  or 
others  !  " 

He  spoke  rapidly,  with  no  care  for  his  logic.  His  aim 
was  simply  to  console  her,  and  her  grateful  glance  helped 
him  to  believe  himself  momentarily  successful. 

As  he  released  her  hand,  she  murmared,  beseechingly, 
"  Take  me  home  !  " 

They  went  swiftly  down  the  porch  together,  and  along 
the  street  to  the  dwelling  of  Dr.  Van  Cleef.  March  cast 
furtive,  pitying  looks  at  her.  Her  suffering  painted  itself 
sadly  upon  her  face,  but  she  did  not  speak.  In  the 
anguished  moments  that  lengthened  between  them  he 
yearned  toward  her  with  an  impulse  of  compassion  that 
unsexed  their  relation  of  young  man  and  young  woman, 
and  was  almost  like  the  lofty  mother-tenderness. 

Before  her  home  the  girl   paused,  looking  up  at  the 


106  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

door  with  an  infinite  melancholy  in  her  streaming  eyes. 
Then  she  turned  away  with  a  shudder,  and  convulsively 
seized  his  arm. 

"  Oh  !  I  can  not  !  Let  us  go  away  !  Let  us  get  out  of 
sight  !  " 

March  drew  closer  the  arm  she  had  unconsciously 
placed  in  his,  and  went  forward  with  decision.  She 
thanked  him  for  the  assumption  of  protection  and  leader 
ship  with  a  look,  and  kept  pace  with  his  quick  strides,  as 
if  she  had  lost  all  will,  or  was  glad  to  merge  it  for  the 
moment  in  his.  His  gaze  dwelt  upon  her  again  in  sor 
rowful  sympathy,  and,  suddenly  glancing  up,  she  took  it 
upon  her  face  like  a  hot  breath,  and  turned  away  with 
warm  cheeks. 

"  Miss  Van  Cleef,  will  you  be  my  wife  ? " 

"  No,  Mr.  March,"  he  heard  her  whisper.  She  did  not 
turn  her  head. 

They  went  on  in  conscious  silence.  They  found  them 
selves  seated  at  last  on  a  bench  in  the  cemetery  in  the 
face  of  the  young  moon.  The  loneliness  of  the  place 
was  grateful  to  Constance  ;  it  seemed  to  brood  about  her 
as  a  defending  cloud.  She  sat  regarding  the  spare  lunar 
crescent  stonily,  though  from  time  to  time  in  uncontroll 
able  anguish  she  wrung  the  hands  clasped  in  her  lap. 
The  day  was  in  those  last  moments  which  are  neither 
light  nor  darkness.  The  earth  gristled  and  blackened, 
then  was  bright  again  in  patches  of  gray,  then  once  more 
hesitantly  black. 

"  Ah,  why,  why  should  they  be  so  cruel  ?  What  right 
had  they  ? "  cried  Constance. 

March,  who  had  received  much  illumination  within  the 
past  hour,  was  silent.  He  could  put  his  own  offence  out 
of  the  way,  but  he  found  it  difficult  to  talk  of  hers. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  107 

"  It  was  Elder  Weiss,"  she  said,  more  calmly,  after  a 
moment.  "  I  must  not  speak  so  harshly  of  the  people. 
They  are  every  thing  that  is  good." 

"  They  mean  to  be." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  and  when  one  thinks  of  it — no,  I  can't  go 
so  far." 

"  One  may  be  too  generous,"  said  March,  quickly. 

"  Yes,  but  one  may  so  much  more  easily  be  too  selfish 
and  narrow-sighted,"  returned  she,  with  a  smile  which 
cheered  March  in  spite  of  its  wanness.  "  In  a  way,  I 
almost  deserve  it.  I  brought  it  on  myself.  I  would  not 
heed  the  warning.  Yet  what  wrong  had  I  done  ?  We 
need  not  speak  of  it.  I — don't  see  how  we  can,"  she 
told  him,  with  a  faint  blush,  "  but  we  understand — 
you  understand."  She  stopped  suddenly. 

"It  was  cruel." 

"  No,  it  was  just.  I  ought  to  suffer.  If  I  had  done  as 
my  father  wished,  if  I  had  become  a  faithful  Moravian 
like  himself,  like  Mr.  Keator,  it  would  not  have  hap 
pened.  It  is  a  judgment.  I  should  have  listened  to 
warnings,  I  suppose.  I  should.  .  .  .  No,  I  should  not," 
exclaimed  she,  with  sudden  conviction.  "  Why  should 
I  ?  How  should  I  ?  They  asked  too  much.  They  were 
rude  ;  they  were  insulting.  They  are  now.  Ah,  could 
any  thing  be  worse  than  that  scene  ?  " 

She  burst  into  hysterical  tears  at  length  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  handkerchief.  It  was  evidently  for  March  to 
take  the  generous  view. 

"  It  is  as  we  look  at  it,"  consoled  he. 

Constance  choked  back  a  sob  and  raised  her  head. 

"  There  is  only  one  way  of  looking  at  it.  Do  you 
think  the  outrage,  the  horror  of  it  will  not  always  remain 
with  me  ?  Do  you  fancy  that  the  picture  of  Elder  Weiss 


io8  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

standing  there  and  stabbing  me  moment  after  moment 
with  his  quiet,  wicked  words  will  ever  leave  me  ?  I  know 
Mr.  Keator  did  not  mean  him  to  go  so  far  ;  the  congre 
gation  may  have  thought  him  too  hard.  But  does  that 
make  it  easier  ?  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  dragged  through 
the  streets  like  the  poor  wretches  in  the  Reign  of  Terror  ; 
as  if  all  that  was  most  sacred  to  me,  had  been  turned 
open  to  a  mob.  Oh,  it  was  too  shameful  !  "  She  paused 
for  a  moment.  "  And  I  can  tell  it  to  you  !  "  mused  the 
poor  girl.  "  That  is  only  a  part  of  the  shame.  I  have 
no  longer  any  reserves.  There  is  no  corner  of  my  heart 
into  which  the  world  has  not  the  right  to  pry." 

"  Miss  Van  Cleef,  Miss  Van  Cleef,  pray  don't  do  pen 
ance  to  your  imagination  in  that  way  !  " 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  as  she  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  You  think  I  exaggerate.  How  is  it  possible  to  mag 
nify  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  By  letting  others  see  how  much  it  seems  to  you," 
said  March,  seriously.  "  Don't  you  see  that  it  really  means 
nothing  for  any  one,  but — but  us,  Miss  Van  Cleef  ?  If 
we  do  not  find  it  beyond  remedy,  others  can  not.  They 
have  not  the  right.  It  is  our  position  toward  it  that 
determines  the  quality  of  the  offence.  It  outrages  you, 
of  course.  I  assure  you  that  my  own  feeling  about  it  is 
strong  enough,  but " 

"  Forgive  me,  Mr.  March.  I  have  been  making  you 
listen  to  my  tirades  about  myself,  forgetting  your  feeling. 
And  it  has  hurt  you,  too  !  Strange  that  I  never 
thought  of  that.  To  you  it  must  be  even  worse. 
Ah,  shall  we  never  get  to  the  end  of  the  shame  of  it  !  " 

"  At  once,  Miss  Van  Cleef,  if  you  will.  It  is  really,  as 
I  say,  only  a  question  of  our  attitude  ;  and  I  have  pro 
posed  an  attitude.  You  refused  to  assume  it.  Will  you 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  109 

not  reconsider  your  determination  ?  Miss  Van  Cleef,"  he 
begged,  "  will  you  not  be  my  wife  ? " 

"  It  is  impossible  that  we  should  talk  of  that,  Mr. 
March,"  said  she,  with  the  dignity  which  even  in  this 
strait  did  not  abandon  her.  Then  after  a  pause  she 
added,  with  emotion,  "  I  see  how  you  feel — that  you  are 
bound  to  offer  me  that  resource.  It  is  good  of  you. 
Believe  me,  I  appreciate  it.  I  think  I  see  my  position 
quite  plainly,  and  it  is  certainly  distressing  enough.  But 
it  is  not  so  bad  as  that.  Surely,  if  it  is  as  you  say,  we 
can  live  it  down  alone,  and  it  would  be  wicked  to  sacri 
fice  two  lives  to  it." 

"  I  did  not  say  it  would  be  a  sacrifice,  if  I  may  speak  for 
one  of  them,"  urged  March,  quietly. 

"  No,  I  know  you  did  not.  But  what  reason  is  there 
but  this  for  a  marriage  between  us  ?  "  She  struggled  to 
say  it  judicially ;  her  blush,  however,  would  not  be 
repressed.  "And  this,  as  I  say,"  she  stammered,  "  is  not  a 
reason." 

"  It  is  the  best  of  reasons.  Miss  Van  Cleef,  I  do  not 
pretend  that  I  am  in  love.  Heaven  knows  the  hints  of 
that  man  were  false  enough.  We  have  been  much 
together.  He  built  upon  that,  I  suppose.  But  there  has 
been  no  love-making,  I  think.  We  have  understood  each 
other  excellently,  have  we  not  ? " 

This  was  not  the  fashion  in  which  her  fancy  had  taught 
her  she  should  be  wooed,  and  her  woman  nature  shrank 
from  the  bald  truth  of  these  statements.  But  her  reason 
instantly  condemned  her,  and  she  obliged  herself  to  take 
her  hands  from  her  face  and  let  him  see  her  crimson 
cheeks. 

"  All  that  would  come  in  time,"  he  went  on.  "  We  are 
accustomed  to  practicing  the  amenities.  There  are  some 


110  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

things  we  can  depend  upon  each  other  for.  I  don't  see 
why  we  should  be  unhappy." 

He  made  this  argument  with  the  conscientious  fullness 
of  an  advocate  who  feels  that  he  has  an  obligation  to  make 
his  plea  complete,  whatever  the  infirmity  of  his  cause. 

The  flush  kept  Constance's  cheek. 

"  You  are  extremely  generous,  Mr.  March,"  she  said, 
with  a  nervous  smile.  "  You  dramatize  your  inclination 
as  an  opponent,  and  argue  against  it  wonderfully  well. 
But  I  must  not  let  myself  be  led  away  by  such  sophistry. 
As  sophistry  it's  very  good,"  she  told  him,  with  twinkling 
eyes.  "  It's  so  good  that  it  may  even  be  in  process  of 
deceiving  its  author.  There  is  the  more  reason,  there 
fore,  that  one  of  us  should  try  to  keep  her  feet." 

"  But—" 

"  I  can  never  thank  you  sufficiently,"  she  said,  cutting 
in  dexterously,  with  instant  seriousness.  "  But  you  will 
imagine  my  gratitude.  Yes,  do,  please,  and  we  will  not 
speak  of  this  again.  A  woman  at  her  worst  must  be 
allowed  her  right  of  decision  in  matters  like  this,  you 
know,"  concluded  she,  with  a  smile  of  finality  ;  and  at 
this  assertion  of  girlish  prerogative  she  seemed  to  gather 
herself  together. 

It  was  slowly  growing  dark,  and  the  slender  moon 
began  to  make  a  dim  radiance  in  the  open  place 
where  they  sat.  The  low-lying  grave  stones  did  not 
show  clearly  through  the  shrubbery  in  the  waning  light, 
and  one  could  not  be  asked  at  this  time  to  think  the  place 
any  thing  but  a  highly  successful  park. 

March  could  not  avoid  a  thrill  of  relief  at  her  definite 
statement.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  discharged  his  con 
science,  in  making  this  offer  with  proper  urging  of 
its  advantage  ;  it  was  obviously  supererogatory  to  desire 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  Ill 

her  acceptance.  If  he  consented  to  set  a  knife  dangling 
above  his  head,  he  could  not  be  expected  to  long  that  it 
should  fall. 

As  Constance  sat  observing  the  moon  when  she  had 
ceased  speaking,  this  figure,  as  expressing  a  young  man's 
sense  of  her  affirmative  answer  to  an  offer  of  marriage, 
might  certainly  have  appeared  harsh.  Her  fine  head, 
which  was  faintly  turned  from  him,  made  a  charming  effect 
in  curves,  and  the  perfect  outline  of  her  face  was  prettily 
cut  against  the  meagre  light. 

But,  as  he  had  said,  and  now  reassured  himself,  he  was 
not  in  love  with  her  ;  and  this  is  a  thing  which  is  so 
clearly  a  matter  of  taste  that  no  one  should  think  of 
disputing  about  it. 

He  said  nothing  in  answer  to  her,  and  it  was  Con 
stance  who  finally  commented  lightly, 

"  Isn't  it  absurd  ? " 

"  Probably,"  answered  March,  laughing.     "  What  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  we  should  be  sitting  here  in  this  prosaic, 
unembarrassed  way.  I  can't  imagine  how  it  has  hap 
pened." 

To  March  the  frankness  of  this  seemed  uncommonly 
admirable.  It  banished  self-consciousness  from  the 
world  and  exiled  shyness,  while  at  the  same  moment  it 
delicately  instructed  the  observant  listener  that  both 
banishment  and  exile  were  swiftly  revocable. 

"  One  would  think  we  didn't  understand  the  proprie 
ties  of  such  an  occasion.  It  is  a  very  embarrassing  one, 
Miss  Van  Cleef,  is  it  not  ? "  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  Not  if  we  don't  make  it  so,"  answered  Constance,  crit 
ically. 

"  Ah,  that's  it !     As  I  say,  it's  all  in  the  view." 

The  reader,  who  occasionally  finds  something  not 
8 


112  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

wholly  congruous  in  the  attitude  of  this  pair  toward 
serious  facts,  is  begged  to  condone  their  foible. 
With  March,  at  least,  his  unfailingly  cheerful  outlook 
was  a  kind  of  creed  ;  one  would  have  said  that  he  kept  a 
supply  of  buoyancy  in  such  portable  vats  as  those  in 
which  Gulliver's  professor  proposed  to  bottle  sunshine, 
and  charged  himself,  if  one  might  call  it  so,  at  frequent 
intervals. 

"You  are  so  good,  Mr.  March,"  returned  Constance. 
"  It  is  very  kind  to  help  me  find  a  bright  side 
to  it  all.  But  you  can't  give  me  a  new  disposition,  can 
you  ?"  inquired  she,  suddenly  turning  toward  him  with 
a  half  smile.  "  No,  I  think  not.  I  have  tried  to  take  it 
your  way.  But  I  can't.  I'm  afraid  it  must  make  a 
difference  to  others  than  us.  Nothing,  I  suppose,  affects 
only  those  apparently  concerned.  We  live  in  so  large  a 
world,  and  touch  it  at  so  many  points.  Why,  a  crack  in 
the  ice — it  radiates  in  all  directions,  but  it  might  start 
with  one's  foot.  Even  when  one  is  only  suspected  of 
wrong,"  pursued  she,  with  less  calm,  reddening  faintly, 
"  and  is  quite,  quite  in  the  right,  the  consequences  are 
more  than  one  could  think.  It  is  as  well  for  men  to  talk  so. 
They  must  believe  it,  and  it  is  a  pleasant  way  to  see  it. 
But  it's  not  a  woman's  way,  and  it  can't  be.  You  don't 
know  what  you  ask." 

"  I  think  I  do — now,"  returned  March,  earnestly.  "  I'll 
even  agree  with  you  up  to  a  certain  point.  One  forgets 
easily  enough  that  he  is  really  talking  to  a  million  years 
or  so  of  tradition  when  he  talks  with  a  woman,  and  I 
fell  into  the  error,"  he  said,  quizzically.  "  But  you  are 
committed  already  as  to  our  own  fortunate  attitude,  and 
I  warn  you  that  I  shall  hold  you  to  it.  Having  found 
the  beautiful  bravery  to  make  so  little  of  this  which 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  113 

might  excusably  have  been  made  so  much  of,  you  can't 
recede.  I  shan't  allow  it,  Miss  Van  Cleef." 

"  Miss  Million  Years,"  corrected  she,  gayly,  but  her 
lips  trembled  a  little. 

He  gave  a  light  laugh. 

"  You  have  a  dreadful  way  of  applying  things  person 
ally,"  he  said. 

She  had  been  absently  twisting  her  handkerchief  about 
her  fingers.  Tightening  its  lines  with  emphasis,  she 
rose  hastily. 

"  Isn't  that  arbutus  ? "  she  asked,  and  one  might  have 
thought  that  it  genuinely  concerned  her  ;  "  it  looks  like 
the  leaf." 

She  crossed  the  broad  way  along  which  the  bench  was 
placed  and  stooped  in  one  of  the  lateral  paths. 

March  followed  her. 

"  It  wasn't,"  she  announced,  as  he  came  up,  "  but  there 
is  usually  a  great  deal  about  here.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
hunted  for  it  by  moonlight.  Let  us  try." 

She  was  not  accurate,  since  the  sun's  light  had  not 
entirely  faded  ;  yet  it  was  evidently  not  daylight.  They 
turned  aside  from  the  path  and  walked  together  among 
the  thinly  ranked  trees.  There  were  no  graves  in  this 
part  of  the  cemetery.  Their  feet  seemed  to  make  a  great 
noise  in  the  dead  leaves,  and  as  neither  spoke,  Constance 
presently  found  an  inexplicable  relief  in  causing  those 
over  which  she  passed  to  rustle  louder.  She  often 
stooped  in  the  fading  light  to  bend  a  green  tuft  that  rose 
from  the  desert  of  brown  leaves,  with  a  skillful  motion. 
From  time  to  time  she  unearthed  tiny  sprigs  of  the  flower, 
and  exultingly  took  the  two  or  three  bells  of  pink,  with 
their  characteristic  background  of  decay  and  freshest 
green,  to  her  nostrils. 


114  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

They  came  in  a  moment  upon  a  cleared  space,  dotted 
with  mounds  of  leaves,  which  had  fallen  after  the  last 
autumn  raking,  and  had  now  been  neatly  gathered  by 
the  brethren.  All  the  remaining  light  availed  here,  and 
with  the  growing  radiance  of  the  moon,  shone  upon  an 
open  from  which  the  tender  pink  of  the  arbutus,  half 
veiled  by  its  leaves,  looked  shyly  up  at  them.  Constance 
fell  upon  it  with  a  raptured  exclamation,  and  plucked 
greedily  for  a  few  moments  in  silence.  March  stood 
watching  her.  She  rose  at  length  and  picked  her  way 
carefully  through  the  gemmed  bed  to  one  of  the  mounds 
on  the  other  side  the  clearing.  She  seated  herself  on  the 
yielding  pile  and  March  took  one  of  the  heaps  near  her. 

It  was  not  chilly  in  the  glade,  though  the  unpositive 
warmth  of  the  day  had  left  nothing. that  gave  a  distinct 
impression  of  heat.  The  Spring  reached  March  afe  he 
sat  idly  flirting  the  arbutus  with  his  stick,  and  furtively 
observing  Constance,  through  a  nameless  and  novel  zest 
in  the  air,  which  he  found  a  charm  the  more  to  know 
that  he  could  not  put  his  finger  on  it. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  a  little  greedy,"  said  Constance. 

She  sat  erect  on  the  soft  dais  opposite  him,  and  held 
up  a  thick,  odorous  bunch. 

"  I  don't  think  the  flowers  object.  They  are  glad  to 
be  plucked  by  a  lover." 

"  I  meant  as  to  yourself." 

"  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  a  nosegay  for  my  coat." 

"  You  know  I  came  out  here  for  rebellion,"  she  said, 
irrelevantly. 

"  I  hadn't  thought.  But  I've  bought  up  all  the  guilt 
in  the  matter,  if  there  is  any,  and  I  warn  you  I  shall  hold 
the  shares  at  fabulous  rates." 

The  lingering  day  abruptly  died  ;  a  faint  breeze  swept 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT,  115 

over  the  thick-sown  fields  of  petals.  Through  the  cir 
cular  opening  in  the  trees  above  the  moon  gleamed  coldly. 
Constance  shivered  and  rose.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
quite  still  in  sad  musing,  and  presently  she  suffered  the 
bouquet  in  her  hand  to  fall  with  an  absent  motion. 

"  You  have  dropped  the  flowers,"  said  March,  rising 
to  restore  them  to  her. 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  You  don't  want  them  ?  " 

"  No." 

Her  tone  was  listless,  not  contemptuous,  and  she  kept 
her  place,  in  meditation. 

"  Come,  Mr.  March,"  said  she,  at  length,  with  sudden 
effort.  "  It  is  late  enough  even  for  rebellion." 

She  compelled  a  weary  smile  of  gayety  to  her  lips,  and 
led  the  way  out  of  the  cemetery. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  street  but  the  gray-headed 
watchman  with  his  staff  and  lantern,  who  passed  them, 
softly  humming  a  hymn.  As  they  went  into  the  house 
his  husky  bass  warned  from  the  thither  end  of  the 
town  : 

"  The  clock  is  eight  !     To  Judea  all  is  told, 
How  Noah  and  his  seven  were  saved  of  old." 

March  and  Constance  stood  in  the  open  doorway 
waiting  silently  for  his  last  note.  As  the  old  man's  voice 
died  away  she  whispered,  indicating, 

"  There  is  a  good  fire  in  the  parlor.  I  must  go  up  to 
father." 

She  looked  toward  him  a  moment  with  trembling  lips. 

"  Ah,  what  will  he  say  ?  "  cried  she. 

Then  turning  from  him  with  a  swift  nod  she  ran  noise 
lessly  up  the  stair. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HER  aunt  met  her  outside  the  door  with  her  finger  on 
her  lips,  and  Constance  shrank  back  with  a  sudden  fear. 

"  What  is  it!     Is  he  worse  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  answered  Miss  Cynthia,  in  hushed 
tones,  and  as  she  came  near  Constance  saw  new,  haggard 
lines  in  her  face.  "  He  had  an  attack  after  you  left.  It 
was  very  severe.  Dr.  Click  has  been  with  him  a  long 
time.  No,  no,  you  must  not  yet !  "  exclaimed  she,  in  a 
hasty  whisper,  as  Constance  attempted  to  pass  her. 

"  Why  not  ?  Can  I  not  see  my  father  ?  It  is  my  place, 
aunt,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  Miss  Cynthia  would  not 
ordinarily  have  questioned. 

"  Not  now,  my  child  !  Not  now  !  You  would  only 
disturb  him.  I  am  not  in  the  room  myself.  Doctor  only 
lets  me  watch  him  from  the  alcove  and  give  him  his 
medicine.  What  is  the  matter,  Constance  ?  You  look 
worn  and  excited." 

Miss  Cynthia  glanced  doubtfully  at  the  girl  through 
her  spectacles. 

Constance  turned  away  without  replying. 

"  I  might  have  done  something  if  I  had  been  here  !  " 
was  the  interior  cry  that  tortured  her.  Grief  is  uncon 
sciously  egotistical  in  its  first  moments. 

"  When  can  I  see  my  father  ?  "  asked  she,  coldly,  as  she 
faced  her  aunt. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  117 

"  I  can  not  tell  you.  After  a  while.  It  is  most  im 
portant  that  he  should  not  be  excited  just  now.  Con 
stance,  you  believe  that  I  would  not  pain  you  needlessly," 
said  she,  more  softly. 

"  You  will  call  me  ? "  was  the  girl's  only  answer,  as  she 
turned  toward  her  room. 

"  Yes,  my  dear." 

These  two  had  never  come  very  close.  The  uncom 
mon  endearment  touched  Constance,  and  with  a  quick 
impulse  she  returned  and  kissed  her  aunt. 

"  We  must  support  each  other,"  she  said.  "  There  is 
no  one  else."  She  hushed  Miss  Cynthia's  sudden  burst 
of  grief.  "  Now  it  is  you,  aunt  !  "  whispered  she,  with 
joyless  lightness  ;  but  a  quick,  sickening  horror  seized 
her. 

The  rarity  of  Miss  Cynthia's  tears  made  them  notable. 
At  this  critical  time  they  were  a  luxury  burdened  with 
meaning. 

"Oh!  why  do  you  cry?"  Constance  choked  a  sob. 
"  Let  me  go,  aunt !  Let  me  go  !  "  she  gasped,  in  a 
fright  still  only  half  familiar  to  her. 

She  went  swiftly  to  her  room  and  flung  herself  upon 
the  bed  in  mortal  anguish.  For  a  space  she  lay  weeping 
and  bemoaning  herself  like  any  woman.  Her  tears  ceased 
suddenly  at  last.  She  rose  resolutely,  and  going  to  her 
mirror,  removed  her  mantle,  and  quickly  wiped  her  eyes. 
Then  with  a  series  of  those  dexterous  touches,  the  art 
of  which,  fortunately,  no  crisis  loses  to  a  woman,  she 
repaired  the  ruin  which  had  overtaken  her  hair,  smoothed 
her  crumpled  dress,  and  walked  firmly  down  stairs.  The 
wisdom  of  that  arrangement  of  human  affairs  which  forces 
attention  to  the  cogs  and  oil-cups  of  life's  engine  while 
the  main  machine  is  convulsed  by  a  supreme  disaster, 


Il8  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

has  been  often  celebrated  ;  and  it  was  the  hope  of  a  pos 
sible  refuge  in  one  little  duty  as  well  as  her  sharp  recoil 
from  the  unworthiness  and  futility  of  emotion  at  this 
time  which  gave  Constance  strength  to  dry  her  eyes  and 
go  down.  She  ordered  tea  brought  into  the  dining-room, 
and,  having  seated  herself  at  the  table,  asked  the  servant 
to  request  Mr.  March's  presence. 

"  Tea,  Miss  Van  Cleef  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  came  into  the 
cheerful  room. 

"  Wasn't  it  in  your  accounts?"  she  inquired,  with  one 
of  her  rare  blushes. 

It  was  very  well  to  say  that  she  would  forget,  and 
certainly  there  was  other  sufficiently  grave  matter  for  her 
thoughts.  But  it  was  not  easy. 

"  I  think  I  can  give  you  five  minutes  to  prepare  your 
mind  for  it.  It  will  take  that  long  to  make  the  tea,"  she 
said. 

The  table  had  been  abbreviated  and  set  for  two. 
March's  demeanor  may  not  have  fairly  interpreted  his 
feeling,  but  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  in  his 
smiling  face,  as  he  seated  himself  opposite  his  hostess 
with  deliberation,  and  glanced  amiably  at  her  over  the 
pretty  tea  service,  a  report  of  the  occurrences  of  the 
day. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  she  asked,  for  something  to  say. 

"Very  !  "  he  assured  her,  with  an  accentuation  of  his 
smile. 

She  made  the  tea  in  thoughtful  silence,  while  March 
told  himself  it  was  unnecessary  to  be  in  love  with  a 
young  girl  to  have  a  certain  pleasure  in  confronting  her 
alone,  while  she  made  tea  in  a  graceful  pot  on  a  table 
whose  glistening  mahogany  and  dainty  furnishings 
frolicsomely  took  the  light  of  the  open  fire. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  119 

He  glanced  up  as  she  poured  the  tea  and  caught  the 
look  of  pitiful  abstraction  on  her  face. 

"  You  are  not  keeping  our  agreement,"  said  he.  "  I 
thought  you  were  not  to  take  it  so  hard." 

"  It's  not  that,"  she  said. 

"  Has  that  man — has  any  one  dared  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  my  father " 

"  Miss  Van  Cleef,  is  he  worse  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — I  am  afraid.  When  I  left  him 
he  seemed  quite  as  usual.  He  begged  me  to  go  to 
church.  It  was  to  please  him.  He  wishes  some 
member  of  the  family  always  to  be  present,  and  on 
Easter  Even  above  all.  But  there  must  have  come  a 
sudden  change.  He  had  a  bad  attack  once  before,  but 
Dr.  Glick  brought  him  out  of  it  successfully.  Now " 

Her  voice  faltered. 

"  It  can  hardly  be  very  bad,  coming  so  suddenly." 

"  I  suppose  not.  I  hope  not.  But  it  is  horrible, 
coming  now.  It  is  as  if  heaven  had  heard  my  selfish 
prayer.  It  was  that  in  some  way  I  should  not  have  to 
tell  him.  Ever  since  it  happened  that  has  been  my 
thought :  '  I  must  tell  father  ;  father  must  know,'  and  I 
have  shrunk  from  it.  I  hoped  and  planned  to  get  away  ; 
to  leave  here  with  him  before  he  could  know  it.  It 
was  very  wrong.  He  would  wish  to  know.  He  must 
know  some  time.  But  still  there  was  that  cowardly 
instinct  of  self-defence.  I  know  what  you  would  say  : 
Father  is  kind.  He  would  not  blame  me.  No,  that  is 
true  ;  that  is  what  would  hurt  me.  I  should  feel  that  I 
had  wounded  him  bitterly,  and  he  would  never  speak  of 
it,  never  complain.  You  do  not  know  his  pride  in  his 
Church,  and  the  Church  has  reproved  his  daughter. 
That  is  a  thing  I  could  not  tell  him." 


120  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

She  had  been  speaking  calmly,  though  rapidly.  Sud 
denly  her  voice  failed  and  her  eyes  filled.  She  took  up 
the  little  cream  jug  at  her  hand  and  absently  poured  its 
entire  contents  into  March's  waiting  cup. 

"  Now — now,  you  see,  I  must  tell  him  !  " 

She  gave  March  a  look  that  demanded  his  sympathy. 
The  logic  was  not  clear,  but  he  understood  her  perfectly. 

"  Certainly.     I  know,"  said  he,  musingly. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  representation  of  Washing 
ton  crossing  the  Delaware,  above  her  head,  and  his 
thoughts  had  evidently  undertaken  a  long  journey  sug 
gested  by  her  words. 

"  Miss  Van  Cleef,"  asked  he,  suddenly,  "  will  you 
excuse  me  for  a  moment?  " 

Constance  sat  silently  wondering  until  he  returned. 
As  he  entered  her  face  questioned  him. 

"  Whom  does  your  father  consult  in  Philadelphia  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Fleet,"  replied  the  girl,  mechanically.  "  Where 
are  you  going  ? "  added  she,  as  he  turned  away. 

"  To  bring  him,  if  you  will  give  me  permission.  He  is 
skillful,  is  he  not? — eminent — that  sort  of  thing?" 

"  Of  course — the  best,"  she  answered.  Her  eyes  fol 
lowed  him  to  the  door  with  vague  bewilderment.  "  But 
what  do  you  mean  ?  How  shall  you  get  him  ? " 

"  I  am  going  down  to  the  inn  to  book  my  passage  in 
to-morrow's  coach." 

"  You  must  not  do  that.  Surely  it  is  not  necessary. 
You  said  yourself  just  now  it  could  not  be  very  serious." 

March  looked  troubled. 

"  Did  I  ?  Well,  it's  not,  I  think  ;  at  least  it  is  not 
alarming."  Her  face  paled  as  he  said  these  words  slowly 
and  with  an  effect  of  embarrassment.  "  But  the  fact  is  1 
just  ran  up  and  saw  your  aunt  and  Dr.  Click.  It's  not 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  12 1 

bad,  I  gather  ;  but  it's  not  to  be  trifled  with.  You  know 
— that  sort  of  thing,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  wave  of  his 
hand  which  he  meant  to  be  reassuring.  "  Not  serious, 
you  know ;  not  at  all.  But  just  as  well  to  be  looked 
after.  I  fancy  Dr.  Click  would  be  glad  of  a  little 
counsel  himself." 

"  Does  he — does  he  think  father  very  ill  ? " 

"  Certainly  not,  Miss  Van  Cleef  ;  but  you  can  imagine 
his  being  willing  to  have  the  light  of  a  little  larger  expe 
rience  upon  the  case.  Dr.  Click  is  an  excellent  physician, 
no  doubt ;  but  he  is  young." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  answered  Constance.  She 
sighed.  "  Do  what  you  think  right,  Mr.  March.  I  shall 
be  satisfied.  But  I  really  don't  like  you  to  take  such  a 
journey  for  us." 

"  Oh,  if  that  is  all  !  " 

"  Couldn't  it  be  done  in  some  other  way  ?  Couldn't 
you  send  ?  " 

"  Not  with  any  certainty.  You  must  know  that,  Miss 
Van  Cleef." 

"  No,  no  !  Well,  if  you  will.  But  you  take  our  grati 
tude  with  you,"  she  said,  rising  and  impetuously  holding 
out  her  hand,  while  she  gave  him  her  richest  smile.  "  You 
must  remember  that.  You  are  altogether  too  good,  but 
we  have  at  least  the  grace  to  appreciate  the  fact.  And  I 
think  I  shall  like  it  that  Dr.  Fleet  should  come,"  she 
ended,  softly. 

With  that  far-away  look  in  her  eyes  she  struck  March 
as  extraordinarily  pretty. 

"  You  will  come  back  to  supper  ?  "  she  asked,  as  he 
went,  but  the  outer  door  had  closed  behind  him,  and  she 
went  back  and  finished  the  meal  alone. 

When  he  returned,  a  half-hour  later,  he  ran  silently  up 


122  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

to  his  room  and  changed  his  dress.  Constance  only 
knew  he  had  come  back  by  the  click  of  the  closing  door 
when  he  went  out  again  presently.  She  had  been 
admitted  to  the  sick-chamber  at  length,  and  sat  immobile 
in  a  straight-backed  chair  with  her  hands  folded  in  her 
lap.  She  had  removed  her  cap,  and  the  thick  blonde 
hair  disposed  itself  about  her  head  with  unconscious 
grace.  The  screen  which  she  had  set  before  the  candle 
threw  all  the  light  on  her  absorbed  features  as  she  stared 
at  the  stricken  form  lying  in  the  shadow.  Dr.  Van  Cleef 
had  not  spoken  or  recognized  her  ;  and  had  only  stirred 
restlessly  when  at  her  entrance  she  had  held  the  candle 
above  him  in  grieving  question  of  his  pale  face.  Miss 
Cynthia  slept  peacefully  in  the  curtained  alcove,  and 
Constance  was  alone  with  her  thoughts.  Her  vision 
included  nothing  but  the  softly-breathing  figure  on  the 
couch. 

Her  thought  also  dwelt  chiefly  upon  her  father,  and 
when  it  wandered,  soon  came  back  to  him  and  the  relent 
less  fear  which  she  would  not  name.  Her  occasional 
mental  excursions  into  other  regions  of  reflection  seemed 
to  pain  her,  for  she  returned  to  the  thought  of  the  sick 
man  with  a  frightened  sigh. 

Certain  memories  encompassed  and  solicited  her,  only 
to  wound  and  thrust  her  back."  Everything  had  been 
bright  this  morning,  the  fates  seemed  well  disposed,  the 
world  welcomed  her  as  an  appropriate  figure.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  she  was  the  same  girl  who  had  light- 
heartedly  bidden  her  father  and  aunt  and  Mr.  March 
good-morning.  In  their  innocence  they  had  wished  her 
a  like  happiness.  The  sarcasm  was  almost  amusing  ;  she 
stilled  a  pitiful  laugh.  Had  she  listened  to  Elder  Weiss  ? 
Had  those  atrocious  words  been  meant  for  her  ?  Had 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  123 

they  been  spoken  before  the  whole  congregation,  before 
the  few  who  loved  and  understood  her,  the  many  who 
distrusted  her  for  her  cold  allegiance  to  the  Church  and 
indefinable  difference  from  them  ?  On  this  day  also  she 
had  been  asked  in  marriage.  That,  one  would  say,  was 
not  occasion  for  a  young  girl's  regret ;  but  it  had  followed 
and  grown  out  of  the  other.  It  meant  nothing  in  itself. 
He  had  himself  assured  her  of  that.  It  was  all  part  of 
the  same  wretched,  irreparable  matter.  And  finally  the 
intolerable  point — her  lothness  to  make  the  occurrences 
of  the  day  known  to  her  father,  and  her  present  haunting 
fear  that  the  choice  had  been  taken  forever  from  her 
hands.  She  looked  into  the  future  with  a  chilling  sense 
of  her  loneliness  :  she  recoiled  from  it  as  if  she  had  been 
suddenly  pushed  into  the  storm  which  she  perceived 
beginning  outside.  But  the  thought  was  tonic  rather 
than  cowing,  and  she  remembered  that  she  must  be  brave. 

Constance  rose,  and  throvang  open  the  window,  leaned 
out  to  draw  in  the  shutter.  The  wind  fled  howling 
through  the  trees.  A  dozen  swift,  sharp  drops,  messen 
gers  of  the  storm,  hurtled  upon  her  face  and  head.  Down 
the  dark,  wind-swept  street  a  single  light  burned  steadily 
behind  an  unshuttered  window.  It  was  in  Mr.  Keator's 
study.  Her  face  brightened  as  she  saw  it. 

"  Not  alone  !  "  she  said,  thoughtfully,  to  herself,  as  she 
barred  the  heavy  shutters.  "  There  will  always  be  Mr. 
Keator." 

She  stirred  up  the  failing  fire  and  threw  fresh  wood  on 
it.  As  she  went  to  give  her  father  his  medicine  the 
storm  burst  over  the  village.  An  appalling  clap  of  thun 
der  shook  the  house  and  went  detonating  southward. 

Constance  stood  erect  with  the  unemptied  spoon  in  her 
hand. 


124  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Poor  creatures  who  are  out  in  such  a  storm  !  "  she 
said,  musingly. 

"  What — what  is  that  ?  "  asked  her  father,  thickly, 
speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  Nothing,  dear  father  ;  nothing,"  answered  Constance, 
stooping  quickly  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  "  Here  is 
your  medicine." 

He  sipped  it  thirstily  as  she  held  him  up,  and  dropped 
back  with  a  moan  upon  the  pillow,  where  he  instantly 
relapsed  into  his  former  stupor.  Constance  regarded  him 
for  some  minutes  in  misery  ;  presently  she  wiped  her 
eyes  with  a  swift  motion,  and  regaining  herself,  walked 
into  the  alcove  where  Miss  Cynthia  slept.  She  had 
neglected  to  close  the  shutters  here,  and,  the  window 
having  been  left  partly  open,  the  rain  was  flooding  the 
floor.  Opening  the  casement  resolutely,  she  threw  out 
her  arms  to  catch  the  shutters,  which  had  become 
detached  from  their  fastenings  and  were  beating  against 
the  stone  flanks  of  the  house  with  sullen  thuds.  They 
evaded  her  for  a  moment,  during  which  the  storm 
drenched  her  head  and  shoulders.  On  this  side  there  was 
no  light.  Far  out  there  in  the  darkness  stretched  the 
Philadelphia  pike.  It  was  fortunate  that  Mr.  March  did 
not  start  until  to-morrow.  She  caught  the  shutters  and 
drew  them  to  their  places.  Asshe  secured  them,  "Why,  to 
morrow — to-morrow  is  Sunday,"  she  exclaimed.  "  There 
is  no  coach  !  " 

She  went  back  into  the  light  with  a  bewildering  terror 
at  her  heart.  March,  with  opposite  intention,  had  imbued 
her  with  the  deepest  concern.  Here  was  a  loss  of  twenty- 
four  hours.  What  might  not  have  happened  in  that  time 
in  her  father's  present  state  ?  Dr.  Fleet  might  come  too 
late. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  125 

She  felt  that  she  must  see  March.  She  looked  at  the 
great  sturdily-ticking  clock  in  the  corner.  The  painted 
moon  above  the  face  stared  at  her  with  an  insane  grin, 
but  she  made  out  that  it  was  only  half-past  eleven.  He 
might  not  have  gone  to  bed.  She  hastily  lighted  another 
candle,  that  her  father  might  not  awake  and  find  himself 
in  the  dark,  and  went  out  into  the  hall.  A  frigid  breeze, 
that  seemed  to  come  from  the  furthest  recesses  of  the 
old  house,  struck  her  as  she  went  forward. 

She  paused  a  moment.  What  was  she  going  to  ask 
him  ?  She  did  not  know.  She  only  knew  that  she  must 
see  him.  At  his  door  she  rapped  without  hesitation ; 
quietly  at  first,  and  then  louder.  There  was  no  answer. 
She  stopped  a  moment  to  think.  Why  had  he  not  come 
back  to  tell  her  that  no  coach  went  ?  With  a  sudden 
thought  she  rapped  more  vigorously  ;  she  smote  the  door 
until  her  knuckles  ached.  Silence  answered  her. 

At  length  she  turned  the  knob  hesitatingly.  The  door 
opened  without  resistance,  and  she  peered  in.  The  room 
was  empty ;  the  bed  had  not  been  occupied.  Then  she 
understood.  Apparently  she  had  more  than  one  friend. 


CHAPTER  X. 

EASTER  SUNDAY  broke  warm  and  sultry,  forewarning 
one  of  those  torrid  days  which  sometimes  spring  out  of 
the  cold  heart  of  the  northern  April.  The  great  festival 
was  heralded  at  dawn  by  the  joyful  note  of  trumpets 
from  the  church  tower  ;  and  the  whole  congregation 
rose,  and,  preceded  by  the  children,  paid  their  annual 
visit  to  the  cemetery  with  singing  and  the  sound  of  wind 
instruments,  making  melody  in  their  hearts  to  the  risen 
Saviour.  The  air  was  heated  and  lifeless  ;  but  later, 
when  the  faithful  community  filed  to  church,  it  hung  inert 
about  them  like  the  breath  of  a  furnace.  At  rare  inter 
vals,  when  the  young  leaves  were  faintly  stirred,  the 
slight  breeze  appeared  wearily  far  from  the  beholder. 

Mr.  Keator  went  scrupulously  through  the  elaborate 
liturgy  for  the  day,  and  preached  a  sermon  of  the  usual 
length  ;  but  the  exhaustion  which  followed  prostrated 
him  until  it  was  time  for  evening  service.  His  hearers 
listened  laboriously,  and  strove  not  to  seem  fatigued  and 
warm — an  effort  in  which  their  failure  did  not  discredit 
them. 

Constance  dozed  restlessly  during  the  morning  after 
her  night  watch  ;  and  when  she  saw  her  father  again  she 
was  startled  by  the  change  which  the  heat  had  wrought. 
When  the  sun  set  and  the  cool  breeze  began  to  breed  in 
the  mountains  and  steal  up  the  valley,  she  opened  the 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  127 

shutters  which  had  been  ineffectually  closed  against  the 
day,  and  sitting  beside  him,  waved  a  palm-leaf  gently 
about  his  head.  She  was  thinking  how  grieved  he  would 
be  to  miss  the  Easter  services  ;  and  her  thoughts  went 
back  to  happier  Easters,  when  she  herself  had  gone  to 
church  joyfully  with  her  mother,  and  her  faith  was  not 
such  a  wearisome,  doubtful  matter.  Stray  sentences  of 
the  Moravian  creed,  which  Mr.  Keator  might  be  reciting 
at  the  moment  before  his  congregation,  flitted  through 
her  mind. 

" '  Who  hath  made  us  meet  to  be  partakers  of  the 
inheritance  of  the  saints  in  eternity,' "  she  murmured, 
absently,  "  '  having  predestinated  us  unto  the  adoption 
of  children  by  Jesus  Christ  to  himself,  according  to  the 
good  pleasure  of  His  will,  to  the  praise  of  the  glory  of  His 
grace  wherein  He  hath  made  us  accepted  in  the  beloved.'  " 

The  sonorous  phrases  left  her  lips  thoughtfully.  As 
she  finished,  her  voice  grew  louder,  and  at  the  end  the 
congregational  response  came  feebly  : 

"  This  I  verily  believe." 

Constance  bent  over  the  figure  on  the  bed. 

"  Why,  father  !  "  exclaimed  she,  softly. 

He  opened  his  eyes  with  a  wandering  look  of  intel 
ligence. 

"  What  ?  Constance,  Constance,  did  you  speak  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  an  effect  of  groping  for  the  words. 

"  No,  father,  it  was  you.  I  was  reciting  the  creed  to 
myself,  and  you  made  the  response.  You  didn't  know  ? " 

"  Didn't  know  ? "  he  answered,  vacantly.  "  The 
creed ! "  said  he,  suddenly,  with  awakened  interest. 
"  The  creed  !  "  He  looked  at  her  keenly.  "  Constance, 
my  girl,"  he  asked,  quite  reasonably,  "  do  you  believe  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  father,"  replied  she,  unhesitatingly. 
9 


128  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  why  not  ?  "  He  paused  a  moment  with  a 
heavy  sigh.  "  But  there  are  other  things." 

Constance  was  much  agitated. 

"  Yes,  father,"  she  answered,  chokingly,  "  there  are 
other  things." 

"Ah!"  cried  he,  gaining  false  strength  for  the 
moment,  "  I  was  wrong  to  force  you." 

"  Force  me  ?     Ah,  poor,  dear  father  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  wanted  to  bring  you  into  the  fold.  It 
was  natural  ;  but  it  was  a  mistake.  You  were  good 
enough  as  you  were— so  good,  dearest !  "  said  he, 
reaching  for  her  head  with  the  old  motion. 

She  put  it  down  to  him,  and  he  ran  his  wasted  hand 
over  her  fair  hair  musingly.  Then  she  kissed  him, 
stifling  a  sob,  and  said, 

"  I  can't  let  you  say  that.  It  is  not  true,  father.  You 
don't  know."  He  made  a  weak  gesture  of  dissent.  "No, 
no,  I  don't  imagine.  If  it  were  true,  if  any  one  could 
fancy  it  true  for  a  moment,  don't  you  think  I  would 
rather  let  you  rest  than  tell  you  ?  Dear  father,"  she 
whispered,  kneeling  by  his  bed,  "  I've  wished  so  that  you 
should  know,  and  once  I  feared  that  you  would  never 
wake  to  let  me  tell  you.  First  I  was  afraid — wickedly 
afraid  ;  but  that  is  gone.  I  want  to  say  it  now — I  must. 
Father,  listen — ah,  you  won't  believe  it." 

"  Darling  !  "  With  a  supreme  effort  he  drew  her  to 
him  and  kissed  her  lips  twice,  hungrily.  "  Darling,"  he 
whispered,  as  he  released  her,  "  I  know." 

She  repeated  the  words  breathlessly. 

He  nodded  quickly,  thrice. 

"  Mr.  March — the  church — Elder  Weiss.     Yes,  yes." 

"  Who  has  told  you?  "  she  cried,  bewildered. 

"Cynthia,"  said  he,  with  difficulty. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  129 

Constance  devoted  a  swift,  grateful  thought  to  her 
aunt. 

"  I  am  sorry  it  fell  out  so,  Constance,  girl — sorry  for 
you,  sorry  every  way.  But  it  was  my  fault.  I  should 
have  foreseen." 

"  Father  !  You  shall  not  blame  yourself.  The  fault 
was  mine — wholly  mine  !  " 

He  tried  to  frame  a  reply,  but  was  silent,  and  Con 
stance  remorsefully  told  him  that  she  had  kept  him 
talking  too  long.  She  made  him  remain  quiet,  while  she 
beat  and  smoothed  his  pillow  with  woman's  skill ;  and 
when  she  had  settled  him  anew,  forbade  him  to  speak, 
and  immediately  bending  over  him,  said,  softly, 

"  You  did  not  speak  of  it,  father.  You  called  me 
good.  Have  you  forgiven  me  ?  Can  you  ?  " 

"  No,  dear." 

She  shrank.  Dr.  Van  Cleef  smiled  happily  on  her 
from  his  pillow. 

"  There  can  be  no  such  word  between  us.  I  can  not 
forgive  you.  I  have  always  forgiven  you.  Do  you 
understand  ? " 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him. 

He  dozed  for  a  time  ;  Constance  fanned  him  pa 
tiently. 

"  Constance,"  he  called,  after  a  little. 

"Yes,  father." 

"  I  shall  not  be  with  you  long." 

"  Father,  father,  don't !  " 

She  bent  over  him  with  a  cry  of  anguish. 

"  Don't  take  it  hard,  dearest.  It  is  a  solemn  thought, 
but  it  is  not  bitter — not  bitter  to  me,  and  must  not  be 
to  you.  You  would  like  to  keep  me  with  you  a  little 
longer,  perhaps,  and  I — yes,  in  my  weakness  I  should 


130  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

like  to  stay.  But  if  our  faith  has  any  meaning,  why  should 
I  fear  to  go  ?  Why  should  you  grieve  to  have  me  go  ? 
Remember  that  I  shall  be  happier.  Try  to  think  of  it  in 
that  way,  daughter.  It  is  a  dear  thought."  He  smiled 
as  if  his  eyes  were  smitten  with  sweet  visions  and  touched 
her  head  gently. 

"  Don't  talk  of  death,  father  !  pray  don't !  You  will 
grow  better,  you  will  recover." 

"  No,  I  am  a  physician.  I  have  watched  others  in  like 
straits.  My  disease  is  peculiar  ;  science  has  much  to  learn 
of  it.  I'm  afraid  we  do  not  even  name  it  correctly  yet. 
But  the  end  comes  suddenly.  I  have  always  expected 
that."  He  spoke  calmly,  while  she  laid  her  face  in  the 
pillow  in  an  agony  of  grief.  "  What  I  wish  to  tell  you  is 
not  that — not  that,  exactly,"  he  went  on,  with  his  old 
repetitive  habit.  "  Constance,  dear."  She  raised  her 
tear-stained  face.  "  You  will  be  quite  alone.  Your  aunt, 
I  suppose,  will  return  to  her  sister." 

"  Oh,  father,  let  it  go  !     Why  need  you  trouble  ?  " 

"  I  must — I  must,  my  dear.  Listen.  You  will  be 
alone,  and  you  will  go  to  your  Aunt  Caroline  ;  but 
eventually  you  will  marry."  Constance  fiercely  shook 
the  head  on  the  pillow.  "  Yes,  yes,  it  is  the  only  life  for 
a  woman."  He  stroked  her  head  softly.  "  Yes,  you  will 
grieve  for  your  old  father  for  a  time.  But  in  the  end  you 
must  marry.  It  is  that  I  wish  to  speak  of.  Constance, 
did  you  ever  think  that  Mr.  Keator — yes,  yes,  I  see  you 
have.  He  is  a  noble  man,  my  dear.  I  will  not  question 
you.  I  will  not  even  leave  it  as  a  wish.  But  I  suggest — 
I  merely  suggest,  my  dear " 

The  gentleness  which  she  remembered  from  infancy 
in  his  treatment  of  her  overcame  her,  and  she  flung  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  131 

"  Let  me  promise  it,  father  !  " 

"  No,  no  ;  if  it  makes  you  feel  bound,  I  shall  be  sorry 
I  spoke.  I  don't  want  to  tie  you.  Remember,"  he 
gasped,  faintly,  in  pain — "  remember  that  I  thought  of  it. 
That  is  what  I  should  like  to  leave  with  you,  dearest — 
that  I  thought  of  it." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  exhausted. 

"  Dear  father  !  " 

When  she  was  told  the  following  morning  that  Mr. 
Keator  wished  to  see  her  she  looked  thoughtfully  at  her 
father. 

"  I  will  see  him,"  she  said,  and  after  a  few  moments 
went  down  and  met  him  with  appealing  hauteur. 

Surely  there  were  matters  between  these  two  to  render 
them  conscious  and  defeat  conversation  by  the  very 
copiousness  of  the  things  to  be  said,  if  they  permitted 
themselves  to  say  them.  For  the  space  of  a  few  unman 
ageable  moments  they  were  as  far  apart  as  if  Mr.  Keator 
had  remained  in  his  study.  He  did  not  speak  of  the 
scene  in  the  church  ;  he  talked  of  indifferent  things.  But 
when  he  asked  with  serious  concern  about  her  father's 
condition  Constance  forgot  her  defences  and  insensibly 
drifted  into  the  tone  of  frank  liking  and  respect  which 
were  always  the  essentials  of  her  regard  toward  him, 
whatever  her  immediate  mood.  She  was  nervous  and 
unstrung  from  long  watching  and  anxiety  for  her  father, 
and  she  would  not  let  him  comfort  her  with  his  hopeful 
phrases. 

"  Mr.  Keator,"  she  broke  out,  "  do  you  believe  in 
immortality  ?" 

"  Miss  Van  Cleef  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  it's  horrible.  I  wouldn't  say  it  if  it 
weren't,"  she  exclaimed,  hysterically. 


132  A   VICTOR  10  US  DEFEA  T. 

"  Don't  you  ? "  he  asked,  with  a  kind  of  sorrowful 
sternness. 

"  Oh,  I  did  and  I  do,  and  yet— 

"  Yet  when  you  are  brought  face  to  face  with  the  ques 
tion,  when  for  the  moment  it  comes  home  to  you,  you 
find  yourself  faltering  and  wondering.  Is  that  it  ?  "  he 
asked,  kindly.  She  assented  unconsciously,  hanging 
absorbed  upon  his  words.  "  It  is  not  uncommon,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes.  "  Every  one 
must  have  felt  the  infinitely  slight  distance  in  a  way 
between  faith  and  no  faith.  It  co-exists  and  is  not  at 
war  with  the  immensity  of  the  difference — as  wide  as  the 
world.  It  is  simply  '  Yes,  No,'  "  he  breathed,  thought 
fully.  "  Sometimes  for  the  slightest  instant  it  is  easiest  to 
say  '  No.'  That  comes  in  such  a  time  as  this  for  you  ;  it 
rises  from  the  very  intensity  of  the  crisis.  But  the  soul 
affirms,  left  to  itself,  and  the  '  Yes,'  when  you  have 
reached  it,  has  tremendous  force.  The  '  No  '  never  has 
any  force  at  all.  In  the  '  Yes '  you  rest  and  live.  But  I 
didn't  mean  a  sermon." 

"  No,  no,  you  are  very  good.  I  can't  thank  you. 
What  you  say  helps  me.  It  is  so  true  ;  and  yet  sometimes 
it  all  goes.  But  you  fill  me  with  courage,"  she  said, 
more  cheerfully.  "  You  know  Dr.  Fleet  is  coming  up," 
added  she,  irrelevantly. 

"  Mr.  March  took  my  horse.  He  was  to  use  it  Sunday, 
but  I  felt  it  was  right,"  he  said,  with  his  native  simplicity. 

"  Did  he  ?  I  wondered "  She  paused  absently. 

Then,  "  It  is  too  much,"  she  said.  "  He  ought  to  have 
waited  for  the  coach." 

"  But  your  father " 

"  Ah,  yes,  father  !  Yes,  of  course  I  am  glad.  But  I 
couldn't  have  let  him  do  it." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  133 

"  No,  he  knew  that.  He  did  not  give  you  the  oppor 
tunity,"  returned  Mr.  Keator,  with  the  faintest  smile. 

"  We  can  never  repay  him,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Keator  studied  his  hat.  Then  he  looked  up  at 
her  with  hesitating  intelligence,  and  a  wistful  smile  trem 
bled  upon  his  lips. 

"  Mr.  Keator  !  "  cried  she,  with  incrimination. 

The  minister  blushed. 

"  Constance  !  "  he  whispered.  He  leaned  forward  with 
a  sudden  impulse,  and  as  abruptly  retracted  his  slight 
form. 

"  You  go  very  far,"  she  said,  briefly. 

"  I  have  but  one  thing  in  my  thoughts  ;  sometimes  it 
will  escape,"  said  he. 

"You  ought  not  to  see  me,  then." 

"  As  you  say,"  returned  he,  rising  with  dignity. 

She  was  at  his  side  as  he  reached  the  door,  and 
brought  him  to  face  her  determinedly. 

"  You  know  I  do  not  mean  that,"  she  said,  with  low 
energy,  taking  his  hand. 

"  No,  I  did  not  think  you  meant  it,"  he  answered, 
simply,  gazing  longingly  into  her  eyes  as  she  stood  before 
him  and  slowly  releasing  her  hand. 

"  I  did  not.  But  I  was  vexed.  There  is  nothing 
between  Mr.  March  and  me.  I  have  told  you  that.  There 
is  not  likely  to  be.  You  have  very  little  faith." 

"  That  is  true.  But  my  act — the  act  which  I  could  not 
reconcile  it  with  my  duty  to  discourage  the  elders  in — 
was  like  throwing  you  into  his  arms.  I  felt  that.  I  saw 
it.  But  I  could  not  do  otherwise.  And  now  I  suffer 
tortures  from  it.  Oh,  Constance,"  groaned  he,  "  you 
must  bear  with  me.  I  despise  myself,  but  I  can  not  con 
quer  the  feeling.  And  every  thing  appears  to  be  slipping 


1 3  4.  A   VIC  TO  RIO  US  DEFEA  T. 

from  me.  My  calling  seems  less  and  less  related  to  me 
day  by  day.  Yet  I  love  it.  God  knows  I  love  it !  It 
has  been  my  life  ;  until  you  came  it  was  the  dearest  thing 
in  the  world  to  me.  I  can  not  see  it  go.  I  could  not 
leave  it.  It  is  not  what  it  was,  and  yet  it  is  a  thousand 
times  more.  Sometimes  I  fear  I  am  neglecting  the 
Church,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  it  is  true.  I  do  not  put  the  same  vigor  into 
my  work." 

"  You  have  not  been  so  well.     You  are  not." 

"  Dearest,  I  love  you,  and  I  fear  to  lose  you  !  That  is 
my  malady." 

Constance  reddened  vividly,  and  looked  down  at  the 
foot  which  she  swung  slowly  from  side  to  side  upon  her 
heel. 

"  Mr.  Keator,  you  believe  that  I  pity  you  ? "  she  said, 
softly. 

"  Ah,  that  is  not  what  I  wish.  I  do  not  think  I  care 
for  your  pity." 

"  But  you  credit  it  ?  " 

"  Surely." 

"  And  that  I  mean  to  be  quite,  quite  honest  about — 
about  the  other  matter." 

"  You  do  not  know  ;  you  may  think "  He  broke 

off  the  irresistible  cry  abruptly.  "  I  have  laid  the  train 
so  well  !  It  is  as  if  I  wished  it.  It  will  affect  you  with 
out  your  will,"  he  said,  hopelessly. 

"  I  think  not,"  returned  Constance,  quietly.  "  It  may 
be  some  satisfaction  to  you  to  know  that  I  have  refused 
him."  The  dazzling  light  of  joy  that  shone  from  his 
deep,  lustrous  eyes  frightened  her,  and  she  looked  hastily 
down.  "  I  do  not  mean  anything  more,"  she  said,  quickly. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  135 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  he,  in  a  rapture  whose  confidence 
appalled  her  and  gave  her  an  intolerable  feeling  of  obli 
gation  to  its  demands  upon  her  future.  "  That  is  enough 
— enough  for  the  present."  Then,  with  a  self-possession 
which  baffled  her,  he  asked  :  "  May  I  see  your  father, 
Miss  Van  Cleef  !  " 

As  they  stood  thus  she  heard  her  aunt  call  her  name 
twice  quickly  from  above.  She  left  Mr.  Keator  standing 
in  the  doorway  and  ran  upstairs  with  a  wild  fear.  Fora 
long  time  she  did  not  return. 

"  Father  is  very  ill,"  said  she,  in  a  tense,  stricken  voice 
when  she  came  back.  "  He  has  grown  much  worse. 
Will  you  go  for  Dr.  Glick  ? "  He  limped  toward  the 
door  and  opened  it,  "  Oh,  pardon  me,  Mr.  Keator," 
she  cried,  "  I  forgot " 

He  saw  that  she  meant  his  infirmity  ;  he  looked  down 
at  his  crutch  and  shook  his  head  with  a  quick  smile.  She 
tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  was  gone. 

When  March  came  up  the  steps,  half  an  hour  later, 
warm  and  dusty,  accompanied  by  an  elderly  gentleman 
carrying  a  brown  leather  medicine-case,  Mr.  Keator,  who 
had  returned  and  was  sitting  in  the  parlor,  went  to  the 
door  and  let  them  in. 

"  Are  we  in  time  ? "  asked  March,  as  he  took  Mr. 
Keator's  free  hand. 

"  He  is  much  worse." 

March  went  rapidly  up  the  stair,  and  coming  down 
again  immediately,  invited  Dr.  Fleet  to  accompany  him 
to  the  bed-chamber.  The  physician's  step  was  slow  and 
heavy,  like  the  step  of  fate. 

For  a  long  time  Mr.  Keator  sat  in  the  room  in  which 
he  had  passed  the  happiest  hours  of  his  life.  Their 
ghosts  seemed  hovering  about  him  now,  and  from  time 


136  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

to  time  he  let  fall  the  volume  of  illustrations  of  Palestine 
scenery  which  he  was  nervously  fingering,  and  sat 
dreamily  turning  over  the  leaves  without  glancing  at 
them.  Occasionally  a  servant  went  stealthily  up  the 
stair  outside  bearing  warm  cloths  and  heated  water 
in  bottles.  Overhead  the  swift  footsteps  were  contin 
uous. 

Mr.  Keator  got  up  restlessly  as  night  fell  and  went 
down  to  his  study  ;  he  took  out  a  dozen  specimens  from 
his  herbarium  one  after  another  and  turned  away  from 
them  in  disgust  ;  the  servant,  when  she  brought  his  tea, 
found  him  endeavoring  to  fix  his  mind  upon  a  volume  of 
sermons.  He  said  he  did  not  care  for  tea. 

Then  he  went  back  and  found  March  seated  before 
the  fire  which  he  had  left. 

"  Dr.  Van  Cleef  has  asked  for  you.  Will  you  go 
up?" 

Mr.  Keator  turned  and  ascended  the  stair  in  silence. 

March  waited  a  weary  time.  It  was  eleven  o'clock, 
and  he  sat  musing  upon  a  miniature  which  he  held  under 
the  light  of  the  candelabrum,  when  he  heard  the  sound 
of  Mr.  Keator's  crutch  on  the  stair.  He  laid  the  min 
iature  down  and  went  to  him  as  he  entered. 

"  Well  ? " 

The  minister's  face  wore  a  look  of  settled  gloom. 
For  a  moment  he  paused,  staring  dejectedly  at  the  floor. 
He  looked  up  with  an  effort. 

"  It  is  all  over.  Dr.  Van  Cleef  died  half  an  hour 
ago." 

March  went  over  to  the  mantle,  and  standing  with  his 
arm  resting  on  it,  gazed  sadly  into  the  fire.  Mr.  Keator 
took  the  seat  the  young  man  had  left.  After  a  moment 
his  eyes  caught  the  miniature  lying  upon  the  table.  It 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  137 

was  of  Constance  as  he  had  first  known  her.  He  drew 
it  toward  him  eagerly,  and  sat  regarding  it. 

"  Poor  girl !  "  he  said,  at  last. 

March  did  not  speak  ;  he  was  looking  at  the  minister's 
absorbed  face. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  FORTNIGHT  after  her  father's  death  Constance  was 
sitting  in  the  arbor  in  the  midst  of  the  garden.  Her  face 
looked  wan  and  haggard.  Contrary  to  the  Moravian 
custom  her  attire  was  black.  The  shapely  cap,  the  col 
lar  substituted  for  the  neckerchief,  and  the  ruffling  at  her 
wrists,  which  were  the  only  points  of  white,  rather 
heightened  the  somber  effect.  The  poor  girl  herself 
looked  appealingly  sad.  She  had  let  fall  the  volume  in 
her  hand  and  was  looking  vacantly  toward  the  rich  golds 
and  reds  of  the  setting  sun.  Presently  her  eyes  suf 
fused  and,  reopening  the  book,  a  pretty  copy  of  "  Thomas 
a  Kempis,"  given  her  by  her  father,  she  strove  to  read. 

The  types  grew  blurred  ;  she  laid  the  book  down  and 
looked  desperately  at  the  luminous  spectacle  of  the 
clouds.  She  had  come  out  into  the  garden  with  a  hor 
ror  of  the  rooms  within.  They  were  all  filled  with  a 
thousand  reminders ;  the  chairs,  the  tables,  mantels, 
pictures  ;  things  that  he  had  used  or  liked  ;  things  that 
he  had  bought  for  her — all  were  vocal  with  his  presence. 
This  presence  was  oftenest  her  joy,  but  at  times  her  tor 
ment.  She  had  not  constantly  the  sense  of  it.  It  came 
and  went  ;  and  sometimes  she  wished  that  she  might 
either  always  feel  that  he  was  with  her,  or  reach  the 
awful  understanding  of  his  absence.  But  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  a  belief  in  the  possibility  of  her  loss, 
even  when  the  void  came  upon  her  most  grievously. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  139 

She  had  lost  her  mother  when  little  more  than  a  child. 
Her  memory  told  her  of  nothing  like  her  present  feel 
ing  ;  she  had  had  at  the  time  of  her  mother's  death,  the 
child's  unconscious  hardness,  its  blessed  insensibility  ; 
and  now  she  sometimes  thought  she  had  the  child's 
incomprehension.  Her  cry  as  she  hung  above  her  dead 
father  had  been,  "  It  can  not  be  !  Oh,  I  do  not  under 
stand  !  "  And  now  she  lamented  constantly,  "  I  do  not 
understand  !  " 

A  wagon  rattled  down  the  long  street  ;  as  the  sound 
passed  a  boy  went  by  whistling.  "  How  can  they  ? " 
was  her  thought.  "  How  dare  they  ?  "  The  world  was 
depopulated  ;  yet  things  went  on  as  usual. 

Her  first  intelligent  feeling  as  she  came  out  of  the 
unreasoning  maze  which  followed  her  bereavement,  had 
been  that  horror  of  the  usual,  the  shock  of  seeing  the 
world's  people  about  the  world's  ordinary  business. 
When  they  brought  her  a  newspaper  she  had  secretly 
wondered  that  it  was  still  published.  Such  thoughts 
came  upon  her  from  time  to  time  irresistibly,  and  she 
was  glad,  at  the  moment,  of  the  rescue  which  she  saw 
coming  toward  her  in  the  form  of  Mr.  Keator. 

His  crutch  sounded  sharply  on  the  gravel  as  he  limped 
down  the  walk.  He  looked  more  than  usually  slight  and 
frail  as  he  leaned  against  the  post  at  the  arbor  entrance, 
his  face  turned  half  toward  the  mellow  light,  and  wearing 
the  smile  which  he  kept  for  her. 

"  Have  you  thought  that  I  neglected  you  ?  "  he  asked, 
as  she  took  his  hand  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat  oppo 
site,  on  the  bench  which  ran  around  the  arbor  within. 

Constance  closed  her  book  and,  setting  it  upright  on 
her  knee,  clasped  both  hands  upon  it.  "  No,  I  hadn't 
thought  that,"  she  answered,  with  a  quiet  smile. 


140  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  It  may  have  seemed  strange  I  haven't  come,  but — 
but  I  thought  I  knew  you." 

"  You  were  right." 

"  I  felt  that  you  would  bear  it  best  alone.  One  must 
be  very  near  to  give  real  help."  His  voice  grew  husky. 
"  I  feared  I  was  not  near  enough,"  he  said,  so  gently  that 
she  scarcely  heard. 

"  I  was  sure  your  delicacy  kept  you  away.  I  know 
you  too,  Mr.  Keator,"  she  said,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"  You  make  me  say  that  it  was  not  altogether  delicacy. 
I  was  troubled.  I  had  not  confidence  to  meet  you." 

Constance  took  up  some  knitting  which  lay  beside  her, 
and  putting  "  a  Kempis  "  aside,  studied  it  attentively. 

"  I  can't  say  how  glad  I  am  that  you  have  found  it." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  he,  absently. 

"  Confidence  to  see  me  again.  I  depend  upon  your 
visits,  you  know.  I  should  not  know  what  to  do  if  you 
abandoned  me,"  she  told  him,  seriously. 

He  took  heart  from  her  mood.  "  What  can  I  say  ? 
You  are  very  good." 

"  Am  I  ?  By  contrast,  perhaps."  A  fly  made  her 
shake  her  head  impatiently.  "  I  have  always  been  so 
far  from  that  to  you." 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  never  meant " 

"  To  be  unkind  ?  No,  I  suppose  not.  But  it  comes 
to  the  same  thing.  If  I  had  meant  it  I  ought  to  be 
able  to  find  some  justification  for  it ;  but  to  intend  the 
best  and  always — Ah,  I  have  not  treated  you  well, 
Mr.  Keator  ! "  She  bent  her  head  and  knitted  indus 
triously. 

"  It  has  been  my  fault,"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  How 

could  you  when "  He  paused,  not  knowing  how  to 

continue. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  141 

She  was  finding  trouble  with  a  dropped  stitch.  It  was 
quite  a  minute  before  she  said,  with  a  brave  tremor  in 
her  voice,  as  she  let  her  knitting  fall  and  looked  up  at 
him,  "  Before  my  father  died,  Mr.  Keator — he  spoke 
of  you.  He  said  he  wished "  She  paused  to  con 
quer  her  tears.  "  Mr.  March  is  gone.  Do  you  remem 
ber  my  saying — .  Mr.  Keator,"  declared  she,  incoher 
ently,  "  I  absolve  you  from  your  promise."  She  took  up 
her  needles  hastily. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  stupid  joy  and 
wonder.  Then  he  drew  himself  upon  his  crutch  and 
went  over  as  swiftly  as  he  might  to  where  she  sat  blush 
ing  hotly.  He  took  her  hand  unresistingly  to  his  lips 
and  kissed  it.  As  he  let  it  slowly  fall  he  sought  her  eye  ; 
but  she  would  not  look  up. 

"  Ah,  I  had  not  confidence  for  this  !  "  The  fond  hope 
in  his  pale  face  fascinated  her  as  she  met  his  gaze.  For 
a  moment  she  was  impotent  to  set  him  right. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Keator,  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  mean  as  much 
as  you  think." 

He  retreated  a  step  on  his  crutch. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  mean  ? "  he  asked,  solemnly. 

"  Don't  make  it  a  question  :  it  is  hard  enough  as  it  is. 
Sit  down,  please,  and  I  will  try  to  tell  you,"  she  said, 
gently.  He  found  his  way  in  a  maze  to  his  former  seat. 
For  a  moment  he  bent  his  always  kindly  gaze  upon  her. 
It  was  richly  expressive — too  expressive  for  Constance, 
who  turned  away  from  it  quickly. 

"  Constance,"  said  he  at  length,  slowly,  "we  must  end 
this  ;  I  have  been  pained  and  harassed  by  it — that  is 
nothing.  But  for  your  sake — I  will  not  go  on  troubling 
you  about  it." 

"  I  feel  your  generosity,  your  forbearance,"  exclaimed 


142  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Constance..  "  I  have  always  felt  them.  I  hope  I  begin 
to  repay  them  by  saying  that  I  am  inclined  to  obey  my 
father's  wish." 

She  expected  him  to  rise,  to  make  some  demonstration. 
He  merely  strove  to  keep  the  fearful  joy  out  of  his  eyes 
while  he  asked  her,  "  Is  it  more  than  obedience  ?  Do 
you  wish  it  ?" 

"  I  have  said  that  my  inclination  went  with  it,"  she 
answered,  reasonably. 

He  got  up  now  and  came  over  to  her. 

"  Dearest,  let  us  understand  each  other  this  time.  Do 
you  love  me  ?  " 

"  Don't  !  "  she  begged. 

A  groan  escaped  him.     "  I  might  have  known  ! " 

She  rose  suddenly  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  Oh  give  me  time  !  I  don't  know.  I — I  must 
examine  myself.  You  may  say  I've  had  time  ;  no,  not 
really.  I  have  always  shrunk  from  considering  it ;  now 
I  will  try  to  think — "  She  paused,  and  after  a  moment 
her  hand  stole  to  his  shoulder.  "  Mr.  Keator,  you  know 
that  I  admire  and  respect  you,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of 
gentle  pleading  in  her  voice  that  was  new  to  him.  "  I 
feel  your  nobility,  your  goodness,  your  unselfishness. 
No  one  could  fail  to  feel  them.  But  I  suppose  I  should 
feel  them  more  than  any  one  else,"  she  said,  with  whim 
sical  sadness.  "  I  should  be  willing  to  suffer  all  for  my 
love  of  them." 

"Ah,  Constance  !" 

"  Mr.  Keator,  take  me  as  I  am  ;  surely  if  I  do  not  feel 
toward  you  as  I  ought,  I  should  learn  to." 

He  yearned  toward  her,  but  sternly  forbade  himself. 
He  was  evidently  suffering  bitterly.  "  Why  do  I  not  ? " 
he  cried.  He  turned  toward  her  with  an  irresistible 
impulse. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  M3 

She  kept  him  from  her  with  a  gesture,  while  she  pur 
sued  her  thought.  "  Father  would  have  had  it  so,"  she 
murmured.  "  Mr.  Keator,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "  let 
us  leave  it  with  a  higher  wisdom.  You  have  a  custom — 
you  marry  by  lot,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  It  would  have  to  be  so  in  any  event !  "  said  he,  leap 
ing  gloomily  forward  with  her  thought. 

"  Would  it  ?  then  so  much  the  better.  You  believe 
that  Heaven  orders  the  result,  do  you  not  ?  "  appealed 
she,  with  the  soft  dignity  which  was  not  commonly 
opposed.  But  she  turned  away  with  a  vivid  blush  as  he 
confronted  her  at  last. 

"  Constance,  how  can  I  say  it  ?  It  can't  be,  my  girl, 
it  can't  be  ;  sit  down  and  let  me  tell  you."  His  face  was 
drawn  in  pain. 

"  We  can  never  marry."  She  turned  a  wondering 
face  to  his.  "  What  I  said  to  you  the  other  day,  the  day 
your  poor  father  died,  was  madness.  I  knew  it,  and  was 
not  able  to  check  the  sin.  For  the  moment  it  ruled  me  ; 
I  could  not  get  away  from  it.  Constance,  you  have  great 
power  over  me.  I  did  not  know  how  much  until  that 
day.  It  is  simply  this  :  when  Elder  Weiss  reproved  you 
he  made  marriage  between  us  impossible.  You  know," 
he  went  on  more  calmly,  "  the  presbyters  of  our  Church 
can  not  marry  without  the  consent  of  the  Council.  The 
Council  requires  certain  things  in  a  wife.  One  of  them, 
of  course,  is  active  membership  in  the  Church.  The 
others — I  will  not  affront  you  by  naming  them,  Con 
stance  ;  but  they  are  not  broad  enough  to  include  the 
purest  angel  in  the  world.  Ah,  I  needn't  tell  you  that 
the  essential  thing  is  the  scene  in  the  Church." 

"  Yet  you  brought  it  about ;  you  forced  it  upon  the 
elders." 


1 44  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  It  was  my  duty,"  he  said,  simply. 

He  put  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  stared  at  the 
arbor  floor. 

"  Ah,  who  is  better  than  you,  Mr.  Keator?"  she  cried, 
impetuously.  "Why  did  I  hesitate  ! "  He  turned 
swiftly  toward  her  with  an  energy  that  awed  and  scared 
her. 

"  My  darling,  it  is  not  too  late,"  he  whispered,  with 
uncontrollable  passion.  "  I  can  give  up  my  ministry  ;  I 
can  leave  the  Church.  Oh,  the  treasure  of  the  world  is 
before  me,  and  I  deliberate.  I  have  dared  to  weigh  you 
against  a  position,  a  profession.  Forgive  it,  dearest. 
It  is  only  habit.  It  is  conquered  ;  it  is  dead.  Come, 
sweet  :  we  need  not  stay  here  ;  we  can  go  away.  We  can 
be  happy  alone.  There  are  many  places  besides  this — 
places  where  no  one  knows  us.  We  could  live  on  an 
island  in  the  sea,  if  we  must.  Dear,  if  we  love  each 
other,  that  is  the  one  fact  in  life,  and  we  are  the  only 
two  in  the  world.  With  the  Church's  consent  or  without 
it — with  marriage,  or  without,  if  need  be — we  will  pass 
what  years  Heaven  may  give  us,  together.  Love  is 
enough.  All  else  is  foolishness.  Dearest,  if  you  truly 
love  me,  this  poor  obstacle  is  no  obstacle.  I  trample  on 
it  for  you.  I  know  not  what  sin  I  would  not  commit 
for  you.  Surely  you  will  do  so  little  for  me  ? " 

She  had  shrunk  unconsciously  before  the  hot,  resist 
less  torrent  of  his  feeling,  but  as  he  went  on  she  found 
strength  to  measure  herself  and  him,  and  she  faced  him, 
as  he  finished,  with  a  glory  of  pity  in  her  eyes. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Keator  !  I  did  not  know  that  any  thing 
could  lead  a  good  man  so  far.  And  do  you  think  I 
would  accept  such  a  sacrifice  ?  Do  you  suppose  that 
any  woman  could  help  a  man  to  such  a  fall  ?  You  could 
not  accomplish  it  yourself." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  145 

He  raised  his  head  which,  his  passion  being  spent, 
hung  dejected  upon  his  breast ;  but  she  would  not  suffer 
him  to  speak.  . 

"  Please  do  not,  Mr.  Keator  !  you  shall  not  give  the 
sanction  of  your  saner  speech  to  such  madness.  If  you 
care  for  me,  let  it  make  toward  something  better.  You 
say  I  have  power  with  you.  Ah,  I  know  now  why  it 
was  given  me  !  It  was  to  save  you  from  this." 

The  revulsion  possessed  him,  and  from  its  vantage 
ground  he  looked  back  upon  his  appeal  as  a  nightmare. 

"You  do  not  say  enough,"  he  said,  after  a  moment  ; 
"  you  do  not  deal  as  hardly  as  you  ought  with  me." 

"  I  have  too  many  failures  of  my  own  to  look  after  to 
treat  yours  thoroughly.  Besides,"  she  said,  after  a 
moment,  "  I  should  not  dare." 

"  Why,  Constance  ?  is  it  a  feeling  about  my  calling  ? 
Is  it  the  old  tradition  of  sacredness  in  it,  of  "some  vir 
tue  outside  the  man  ?  Yes,  yes  ;  I  should  have  seen 
more  clearly,  even  in  my  passion.  The  ministry  is  not 
like  other  things.  It  is  not,  as  I  said,  a  mere  position,  a 
profession  that  I  should  give  up  for  you.  It  is  a  calling, 
a  something  that  has  its  unchangeable  seat  in  the  nature 
of  the  man,  and  its  responsibilities  to  others  than  him 
self — to  the  whole  structure  of  society  and  to  God.  All 
other  things  a  man  may  take  up  and  lay  down.  But 
the  priestly  office  implies  a  dedication,  a  consecration. 
It  is  a  divine  call ;  you  may  answer  it  or  not,  but,  having 
answered  it,  it  is  final  ;  there  is  no  retreat." 

"  Yes,  and  the  world's  honor  of  it,  I  suppose,  comes 
from  its  sense  of  that — of  its  permanence,  its  beauty,  its 
holiness,"  mused  Constance.  "  I  knew  you  could  not  be 
less  than  perfectly  loyal.  I  knew  I  only  seemed  to  lose 
my  ideal." 


146  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

A  look  of  pain  crossed  his  face. 

"  My  dear  girl,  don't  say  that.  Remember  that  you 
can  always  tempt  me." 

He  sat  moodily  silent  for  a  time. 

The  last  rays  of  the  sun  kept  a  faint  rose  hue  in  the 
west.  Constance's  needles  struck  audibly  on  the  still 
ness  with  their  measured  click. 

"  Constance,  do  you  think  I  could  have  done  it  ? "  he 
broke  out,  at  last.  "  Your  faith  in  me  is  sweet  ;  say 
again  you  think  I  could  not." 

"  I  know  you  could  not,"  she  said,  briefly. 

"  But  if  you  had  yielded — if  you — pardon  me  ;  sup 
pose  it — if  you  had  consented  ?  " 

The  contest  of  her  needles  went  on  for  a  moment  like 
a  roar  in  his  ears,  and  he  watched  her  closed  lips  as  if 
they  had  been  an  oracle's.  For  that  instant  she  hesita 
ted  ;  then, 

"  No,  not  if  I  had  yielded,  not  if  I  had  consented," 
she  repeated,  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  tone  had  the  weight  of  conviction,  but  the  minis 
ter  was  not  flattered  to  belief. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  he  cried,  after  a  mo 
ment.  "  Constance,  after  such  a  lapse  I  can  never  be 
sure  of  myself.  I  shall  never  feel  that  I  have  surely 
mortified  the  weak,  sinful  wishes  of  the  flesh,  unless  I 
am  offered  the  temptation  again,  unless  I  force  myself 
to  face  it  continuously  for  a  long  time.  Do  you  under 
stand  ?  I  would  be  strong  by  challenging  my  weakness, 
confronting  it  until  it  looks  down  ashamed.  Give  me 
the  opportunity.  Say  what  you  said  again." 

"  But  then  I  did  not  know  that  it  involved — " 

"  My  calling  ?  No  ;  but  now  that  you  know,  help  me 
to  assure  myself  that  that  is  what  you  think  it — a  final 
obstacle.  Furnish  me  with  the  temptation." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  147 

"  You  mean — "  She  dropped  her  needles.  "  What  a 
strange  idea  ;  wait  a  moment.  I  am  trying  to  under 
stand," 

"  You  said  a  moment  ago  that  your  power  had  been 
given  to  save  me  ;  that  is  it ;  I  ask  you  to  save  my  self- 
respect." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  confident  smile. 

She  took  his  hand. 

"  I  will." 

"  Understand,  dear,  I  ask  it  for  some  time  ;  is  there 
no  one  else,  nothing  to  interfere  ? " 

"  No  one,  nothing,"  she  answered,  looking  down. 

"  Then  promise  me  that  if  I  come  to  you  and  say,  '  I 
have  failed.  I  am  less  strong  than  I  thought,  I  have 
given  up  my  ministry.  I  offer  you  a  life  beggared  of 
every. thing  that  makes  life  worth  while,  of  deliberate 
malice  divorced  from  all  good  and  noble  things  except 
my  love,'  you  will  submit  yourself,  as  you  said,  to  the 
test  of  the  lot.  Will  you  promise  that,  dear  ? " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Does  it  seem  hard  ? " 

"  Very  hard  !  "  owned  Constance. 

"  Do  you  think  me  oversensitive  ?  Imagine  like  miser 
ies — think  of  a  soldier  who  has  turned  his  back  on  the 
enemy.  Fancy  his  halting  in  the  midst  of  his  shameful 
retreat  to  wish  with  all  his  soul  that  he  had  not  left  the 
faithful  men  struggling  behind  him  there  to  fight  the 
battle  without  him.  Would  he  not  give  all  his  future  for 
the  right  to  stand  with  them  again  ?  What  would  he  not 
barter  to  renew  his  self-respect  ?  That  is  not  oversensi- 
tiveness,  do  you  think,  Constance — nor  false  pride  ?  It 
is  a  bitter  human  need.  It  is  the  awful  need  of  a  pure 
conscience.  What  do  you  think  life  would  be  worth  to 


148  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

that  deserter,  with  the  knowledge  always  pressing  home 
upon  him  that  he  had  abandoned  his  trust,  with  his  heart 
beating  time  eternally  to  the  wretched  inward  cry  of 
'  Coward  !  Coward  ! '  Might  he  not  better  die  if  he  is 
never  to  win  back  the  peace  of  soul  which  he  left  behind 
him  with  his  musket  as  he  ran  ?  And  then  think  what 
an  angel  of  light  he  would  seem  who  should  come  up  as 
he  stood  there  hesitating,  and  say  :  '  Your  place  in  the 
ranks  is  not  lost  yet.  No  one  knows  that  you  have 
failed  for  this  moment  but  me.  Come  back  with  me  ! ' 
Constance,  you  can  be  that  messenger  of  life  to  me." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  troubled  look  in 
her  eyes. 

"  I  may  have  a  more  easily-tortured  conscience  than 
other  men ;  but  God  knows  it  is  slothful  enough. 
And  at  all  events,  I  am  quite  certain  that  the  need 
to  which  I  ask  you  to  minister  is  not  peculiar  to 
me.  It  is — it  must  be — universal ;  else  why  do  criminals 
long  to  hold  up  their  heads  again  among  men  ?  why  do 
lost  men  and  women  spend  all  that  is  left  of  life  in  striv 
ing  for  the  place  they  have  forfeited  ?  Is  it  mere  pride, 
do  you  think  ? — a  wish  to  be  well  seen  of  men  ?  Then 
repentance  and  reform  are  poor  shams.  If  men  do  not 
seek  the  light  after  the  darkness  because  it  is  a  condition 
of  life — because  they  simply  must  be  able  to  walk  upright 
before  God  and  their  own  consciences,  if  they  grope 
their  way  toward  it  merely  because  they  fancy  they  will 
look  better  in  it — surely  then  our  preaching  is  vain,  our 
charities  are  empty,  and  God's  merciful  pardon  and 
peace  is  offered  to  men  unworthy  of  it  and  deaf  to  it." 

He  spoke  under  great  excitement,  and  as  he  ended, 
sank  exhausted  upon  the  seat  from  which  he  had  risen, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  149 

Constance  looked  about  her  in  perplexity. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  she  exclaimed,  at  length. 

He  raised  his  head. 

"  Do  not  say  anything  that  you  will  be  sorry  for.  I 
would  not  have  you  do  that  to  save  me  from  the  tor 
tures  of  the  lost.  But,  dear,  you  know*  I  would  not 
ask  you  for  a  thing  for  my  own  selfish  good  that  could 
harm  you.  I  do  not  dare  say  it  is  a  mere  form  ;  for  I 
need  to  rest  myself  upon  your  firm  promise.  But  you 
have  known  me  a  long  time.  I  think  I  may  fearlessly 
challenge  my  past  life.  Is  there  anything  in  it  to  make 
you  fear  my  failure  ? — anything  but  my  madness 
to-day  ? " 

"  No,  no  !  " 

"  Then  I  ask  you,  as  friend  asking  friend,  to  help 
me  ;  not  urging  it — I  would  rather  die.  But  stating 
the  case  fairly  and  leaving  it  with  you." 

Constance  had  at  the  moment  an  irrelevant  memory 
of  what  she  had  once  said  to  herself — that  she  would 
sacrifice  much  to  do  him  a  service.  Surely  this  was  a 
very  small  sacrifice  if  she  had  faith  in  him. 

"  Constance,"  he  went  on,  "  it  is  the  condition  of  my 
life.  I  can  not  live  knowing  that  I  could  be  guilty  of 
such  an  atrocity.  It  is  asking  a  great  deal  and  you  owe 
me  nothing — but  I  am  content  to  abase  myself  so  far  as 
to  accept  such  generosity.  You  hold  help  in  your  hands  ; 
will  you  give  it  to  me  ? " 

"  Would  father  have  wished  it  ?  " 

For  a  moment  the  minister  kept  a  pained  silence. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  at  length,  quickly,  as  if 
fleeing  temptation. 

"  You  know  that  if  you  asked  me  now,  no  considera 
tion  in  the  world  would  cause  me  to  consent  ?  " 


150  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"Yes,  I  know  that." 

"You  understand  that  if  I  promise  it  is  because  I 
have  implicit  faith  that  you  will  never  put  me  to  the 
test  ? " 

"  I  understand." 

"  Then,  Mr.-  Keator,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  it  for 
you,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  For  how  long  shall  it  be  ? " 

"  Shall  we  say  a  year  ?  "  she  suggested,  kindly. 

"  You  are  generous,"  said  he  ;  "a  shorter  time  would 
serve." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MR.  KEATOR  left  Constance  then  ;  and  when  he  came 
again  they  did  not  speak  of  this  compact.  Constance 
had  her  own  difficulties,  and  after  they  had  discussed 
the  near  and  natural  topics  growing  out  of  every-day 
life  and  relations,  which  seem  to  be  as  necessarily  pre 
liminary  to  serious  talk  as  a  penman's  flourishes  to  actual 
writing,  she  asked  him  if  she  might  trouble  him  about 
some  of  them. 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Keator,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of 
melancholy,  "  I  am  what  would  be  called  rich.  Dear 
father  left  me  every  thing.  Of  course  he  wished  some 
thing  to  go  to  the  Church,  but  he  said  he  preferred  that 
as  it  was  to  come  from  my  portion,  I  should  decide  how 
much  and  the  way  in  which  it  should  be  applied.  His — 
his  delicacy,"  she  added,  shyly,  "  puts  it  in  my  power  to 
show  the  Church  that  I  have  the  best  will  toward  it." 

"  It  was  not  needed,  but  we  shall  be  very  glad  of 
any  thing  that  you  may  choose  to  do,"  returned  he, 
formally. 

They  were  in  the  garden  again,  for  Constance  found 
herself  unable  to  talk  to  any  one  in  the  house. 

"  Then,  if  you  will  let  me  suggest,"  she  went  on,  "  I 
have  thought  that  I  should  like  to  deposit  with  your 
board  of  missions,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  a  sum  that 
would  produce  from  year  to  year  enough  to  sustain  an 
additional  missionary  at  your  station  in  the  West  Indies. 
Does  that  seem  practical  ?  Is  it  foolish,  is  it  absurd  ? 
Tell  me,  Mr.  Keator.  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  what 


152  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Mr.  March  has  told  me."  Mr.  Keator  paled.  "  He  says 
the  poor  people  there  are  in  a  wretched  way.  I  only 
suggest  that  because  I  feel  a  kind  of  acquaintance  and 
sympathy  with  them  from  what  he  has  said.  But  if  there 
is  anything  else — if  you  know  something  more  urgent — " 
It  was  strange  to  see  her  defer  so  to  him. 

"  No,  no,  there  is  nothing  else,"  interposed  he,  hastily ; 
"  that  is  a  worthy  object,"  he  added,  quaintly,  in  the 
pulpit  phrase. 

"  And  then,"  she  went  on  calmly,  not  noting  his  agita 
tion,  "  I  wish  to  build  a  hospital  here  in  Judea  as  a 
memorial  of  father." 

"  That  would  be  costly.  You  probably  do  not  know 
how  costly.  We  could  not  accept  such  a  gift." 

"  Nevertheless  I  shall  build  the  hospital." 

"Ah,  well !" 

They  had  drifted  toward  the  arbor  and  now  entered 
it.  Mr.  Keator  looked  about  him  as  he  sat  down. 
He  let  his  memory-filled  eyes  fall  upon  Constance. 
With  compassionate  intuition  of  the  bitter  recollections 
which  this  little  structure  must  call  up  in  him,  she  went 
on,  hastily,  "  And  I  shall  trust  to  your  judgment  and 
experience  to  teach  me  the  best  way  to  do  it."  She  was 
not  so  tactless  as  to  use  the  false  consideration  for  his 
feelings  involved  in  such  an  open  recognition  of  it  as 
leaving  the  arbor.  Instead,  she  continued,  gayly,  "  Shall 
it  be  built  in  separate  cottages  or  in  a  single  structure  ? 
Shall  it  be  stone  or  wood  ?  Shall  we  put  a  gambrel  or  a 
gable  roof  on  it  ?  What  rooms  shall  we  reserve  for  the 
nurses  ?  How  shall  the  wards  be  arranged  ?  Those  are 
things  I  want  to  talk  over  with  you." 

"  You  have  considered  everything.  Nothing  is  left," 
he  said,  with  a  yielding  smile. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  153 

"  No  ;  I  have  only  considered  the  considerations.  I 
am  going  to  ask  you  to  decide."  They  fell  into  a  talk 
about  architecture,  in  which  they  relied,  perhaps,  rather 
upon  taste  than  knowledge,  and  finally,  when  there  still 
seemed  a  little  left  to  say,  and  the  subject,  therefore, 
could  be  decently  abandoned,  "  Mr.  March  went  away 
suddenly,"  remarked  Constance. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mr.  Keator.  "  His  brother  was 
seriously  ill  and  his  mother  prostrated  by  it.  He  had 
a  letter  and  felt  he  must  go  at  once  to  catch  the  packet 
sailing  the  first  of  the  month.  He  would  not  disturb  you 
in  your  grief  to  say  a  hurried  good-bye."  Constance 
turned  away  with  the  sudden  tremor  that  she  had  not 
yet  learned  to  conquer  at  the  suggestion  of  her  loss,  and 
rising  after  a  moment,  went  outside  the  arbor  and 
thoughtfully  plucked  a  rose  from  the  richly  blossomed 
bush  that  climbed  the  lattice  work.  "  He  had  a  feeling, 
too,  I  suppose,"  pursued  the  minister,  keeping  his  place, 
"  about  receiving  your  thanks.  He  commissioned  me  to 
say  all  that  was  proper,  and  especially  to  thank  you  for 
your  hospitality,  on  which  he  seemed  to  think  he  had 
trespassed.  I  am  glad  you  spoke  of  it.  I  was  near  for 
getting  it."  She  made  no  comment,  but  stood  with  the 
scentless  rose  to  her  nostrils,  looking  up  at  the  profuse 
crimson  bloom  on  which  the  refracted  light  of  the  van 
ished  sun  fell  coldly.  He  rose  and  came  out  to  her. 

"  Mr.  Keator,"  she  said,  "  there  is  one  thing — the  chief 
thing  I  have  wished  to  ask  you  about " 

"  Well  ?  "  he  responded,  kindly. 

"  It's  not  easy  to  say  or  explain."  She  paused,  and 
let  her  doubtful  glance  fall  upon'  the  rose  bush  once 
more.  "  Mr.  Keator,"  she  burst  out,  suddenly,  "  can 
you  imagine  that — that  all  that  has  happened  ;  not  only 


154  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

poor  father's  death  ;  though  that,  of  course,  first— but 
the — the  occurrence  in  the  church — and  all,  have  helped 
me  to  a  new  view  of  sorrue  things,  have  given  me  certain 
new  wishes  ? "  She  paused,  but  she  did  not  seem  to 
desire  an  answer  and  the  minister  kept  silence  as  she 
looked,  unseeing,  toward  the  faintly  lighted  West.  "  I 
would  like  to  be  good,"  she  said,  "  that  is  all — good  as 
my  dear  father  was  good,  as  you  are  good,  Mr.  Keator." 

"  You  know  what  I  would  say,"  exclaimed  he. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  answered  she,  soberly,  "  but  that  is 
not  true.  In  the  Church  sense  I  am  not  good,  and  what 
shall  I  do  ?  That  is  what  I  wish  to  ask  you,"  she  con 
tinued,  calmly. 

"  What  should  you  say  ?  "  asked  he,  as  helplessly  as  if 
he  had  never  ministered  to  one  in  like  trouble. 

"  Why,  I  want  to  know  if  I  had  not  better  enter  the 
convent  at  Ephrata  ? " 

She  spoke  of  it  with  an  innocent  reverence  singularly 
unlike  her  treatment  of  other  things.  The  Protestant 
convent  was  also  a  monastery,  and  was  the  refuge  of  a 
scanty  sect  not  unlike  the  Moravians. 

"  My  poor  girl !  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Is  it  so  impossible  ?  "     She  sniffed  the  rose  faintly. 

"  Not  impossible  ;  but  foolish,  if  you  will  let  me  say  it 
of  an  intention  springing  from  so  good  and  commendable 
a  wish.  You  have  some  theory  of  remorse  about  your 
father  :  that  you  did  not  join  the  Church  during  his  life, 
that  it  found  occasion  to  reprove  you — those  things. 
You  do  not  deny  that  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  she,  staring  again  at  the  roses  with  the 
sad,  remote  look  that  the  mention  of  these  things  always 
brought  into  her  face. 

"  And  for  that  you  would  shut  up  your  life  to  the  pur- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT,  155 

suit  of  a  futility  ?  My  dear  girl,  the  conventual  life  is  a 
fanaticism  leading  to  doubtful  personal  good  and  not 
justifying  itself  in  labors  for  the  good  of  others.  I 
sometimes  think  the  convent  wall  a  selfish  fence,  ena 
bling  a  skulking  from  duty  to  one's  neighbor." 

"  But  the  vows  there  are  not  binding.  J  could  come 
out  when  I  chose." 

"  My  child,  why  should  you  ever  enter  ?  No  !  If 
you  think  that  you  are  not  good  enough — and,  of  course," 
he  told  her  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  bound  to  teach  that  you 
are  unregenerate — do  good.  Surely  you  will  do  some 
thing  if  you  build  this  hospital  and  endow  the  missionary. 
And  after  that,  in  this  sorrowful  world,  there  is  always 
enough  suffering  to  cure,  if  you  will." 

"  Ah,  that  is  true  !  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  may  best  go 
to  Aunt  Caroline,  as  father  said." 

He  regarded  her  for  an  instant  in  amazement.  The 
swiftness  of  her  decision  startled  him.  "  Nothing  could 
be  better,"  agreed  he,  quietly,  after  a  moment. 

"  Perhaps  he  would  not  have  liked  the  convent,"  she 
said,  softly,  as  if  mentally  settling  a  question  that  had 
harassed  her  ;  and  the  whole  proposition  was  at  once  as 
if  it  had  never  been. 

"  Miss  Van  Cleef,  it  is  not  Church  wisdom,  but  have 
you  ever  tried  letting  yourself  go  ?  " 

She  smiled  at  him  silently. 

"  Let  yourself  go  sometime,"  he  advised,  with  a  nod 
and  his  gentle  smile  ;  and  he  felt  extraordinarily  worldly 
as  he  walked  up  the  path  with  her. 

She  wrote  her  aunt  and  received  in  reply  to  her  tenta 
tive  proposal  such  a  large-hearted,  cheering  letter — over 
brimming  with  motherliness  and  welcome — as  gave  the 
friendless  girl  happy  confidence  about  her  future  ;  and 


156  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

there  was,  therefore,  no  fear  of  a  dubious  reception  to 
cast  her  back  upon  the  secure,  if  barren  life,  which  she 
might  continue  to  live  in  Judea.  The  prospect  was 
pleasant.  She  wished  the  retrospect  were  half  so  agree 
able.  When  she  came  to  make  ready  to  go,  she  found 
this  uprooting  of  old  ties  instructive.  It  caused  her  to 
sit  down  in  the  midst  of  the  remains  of  her  past  life,  and 
take  that  general  account,  that  large  view,  impossible 
while  she  was  still  living  it.  It  occurred  to  her  that  her 
disasters  and  sorrows  were  more  or  less  remotely  refer 
able  to  her  pride,  and  she  resolved  to  humble  and  sub 
mit  herself.  It  was  a  capital  opportunity  to  begin 
anew. 

As  the  time  which  she  had  set  for  her  departure  drew 
near,  the  thought  of  it  began  to  have  an  unaccountable 
pain  for  her.  She  had  not  supposed  the  Moravian 
village  in  any  way  dear  to  her  ;  but  it  is  impossible  that 
one  should  fail  to  send  forth  some  creepers  in  four  years, 
and  she  found  them  clinging  in  unexpected  spots,  and 
with  curious  tenacity.  She  discovered  that,  independent 
of  Sister  Zelda,  she  had  more  genuine  friends  among  the 
sisters  and  brethren  than  she  supposed,  and  as  they 
came  from  day  to  day  to  bid  her  farewell,  she  did  not 
cheapen  the  worth  of  their  genuine  friendship  in  her 
heart,  and  the  sense  of  its  value  was  one  of  the  things 
which  made  it  hard  to  go.  Her  least  manageable  regret, 
however,  was  for  the  old  house  and  her  father's  beloved 
garden.  The  latter  she  arranged,  should  be  kept  scru 
pulously  by  the  same  man  he  had  chosen,  and  on  the 
day  that  she  went  about  to  bid  it  adieu,  she  felt  gladly, 
as  she  saw  it  through  her  tears,  that  if  he  could  come 
back,  he  would  not  find  it  less  beautiful,  less  carefully 
kept  than  he  would  wish.  The  house  she  had  persist- 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  157 

ently  declined,  against  all  thrifty  advice,  to  sell.  She 
had  offered  it  first  to  her  Aunt  Cynthia  as  an  abode  for 
herself  while  she  lived.  For  the  only  time  since  her 
brother's  burial,  and  for  the  third  time  in  her  adult  life — 
the  first  being  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  poor  fel 
low  who,  coming  home  to  marry  her,  was  lost  at  sea — 
Miss  Cynthia  allowed  herself  to  weep  a  little  silently. 
Then  she  kissed  Constance  with  affection. 

"  I  have  not  understood  you,  dear,"  she  said,  as  she 
let  a  warm  drop  fall  upon  her  withered  cheek.  "  I  have 
only  been  learning  to  know  you  within  the  last  few  weeks, 
since — since  brother's  death." 

A  look  of  anguish  passed  over  her  face  which  threat 
ened  a  real  convulsion  ;  she  controlled  it  so  that  Con 
stance  only  saw  a  mild,  momentary  flutter  of  the  moist 
eye-lids. 

"  You  are  a  good  child.  You  were  always  good  to 
him,  and  now  you  are  very  kind  to  me.  But  I  can  not 
take  it.  What  could  a  poor,  faded  woman  do  with  such 
a  place,  and  all  alone  ?  It  is  true  I  have  friends — yes, 
many,  many  true,  unselfish  friends  ;  some  of  them  might 
stay  with  me.  But  it  is  better  that  I  should  go  back  to 
Sister  Maria,  in  New  York.  She,  too,  is  all  alone.  I 
should  never  have  left  her  if  it  had  not  been  for  your 
father." 

But,  though  the  house  must  stand  idle  and  untenanted, 
Constance  did  not  halt  in  her  purpose  to  keep  it,  and 
she  finally  went  away,  leaving  its  dear  old  furniture,  its 
memories  of  agreeable  hours,  its  sacred  associations,  to 
console  and  mingle  with  one  another,  unfriended  by  the 
echo  of  any  footstep  but  that  of  the  ancient  German 
gardener  who  had  promised  to  look  in  occasionally. 

Mr.  Keator  limped  down  to  the  starting  place  of  the 


158  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

coach,  to  see  her  and  Miss  Cynthia  go.  When  he  had 
made  his  adieux  to  the  latter,  he  came  around  on  the 
other  side  where  Constance  sat. 

"  I  shall  see  you  again  before  very  long  ? "  he  asked,  as 
he  took  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  returned  she,  hastily,  with  a  vague  glim 
mer  of  tears  in  her  eyes — for  the  situation  rather  than 
for  her  thought  of  the  minister.  "  I  shall  come  back  to 
look  after  the  hospital." 

They  were  silent  a  moment. 

"  You  do  not  wish  me  to  stay  ? — you  are  glad  that  I  am 
doing  this  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  under 
cover  of  the  loading  of  luggage,  the  talk  of  hostlers,  and 
the  stamp  of  the  horses. 

"  No,  no  !  it  is  best  so.  I  do  not  wish  too  much 
temptation." 

She  looked  thoughtfully  at  him. 

"  You  must  not  fail,"  she  said,  with  a  light  of  serene 
trust  in  her  eyes.  She  smiled  softly  at  him. 

"  Not  while  you  keep  your  faith  in  me,"  he  whispered. 

He  put  up  his  hand  again  for  farewell,  the  landlord  of 
the  inn  gave  his  last  message  to  the  driver,  and  the  coach 
rolled  off,  while  Mr.  Keator  stood  with  his  head  bared, 
gazing  at  a  cloud  of  dust. 

At  the  city  to  which  they  came  that  evening,  Con 
stance's  way  and  Miss  Cynthia's  diverged.  They  spent 
the  night  here,  and  upon  awakening  the  following  morn 
ing,  they  bade  each  other  a  farewell,  in  which  the  val 
iant  affection  that  had  of  late  grown  up  between  them 
was  at  no  pains  to  hide  itself. 

Constance  experienced  a  joyful  sensation  of  freedom, 
for  which  she  presently  reproved  herself,  as  the  coach 
left  the  city  and  turned  southward.  It  was  true  that  she 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  159 

was  going  in  a  direction  opposite  from  New  York,  but  she 
was  also  going  to  her  mother's  sister,  of  whom,  though 
she  had  never  seen  her,  she  felt  perfectly  sure  in  advance. 
She  was  also  not  without  unsatisfied  desires  for  travel  and 
exploration,  as  she  had  told  March,  and  the  South  had 
always  held  an  honorable  place  in  her  imagination.  It 
was  true  that  Maryland  was  not  very  far  south,  and  that 
Quinnimont  only  narrowly  kept  its  place  on  the  boundary 
of  that  excessively  bounded  State  ;  but  to  her  strictly- 
bred  northern  idea  it  was  to  all  intents  semi-tropical,  and 
at  least  she  was  not  disappointed  in  the  southern  warmth 
of  the  greeting  of  her  aunt's  family,  who  had  assembled 
in  the  wide,  bright  hallway  of  their  home  to  do  her  honor. 

"  Oh,  aunt  !  "  she  cried,  in  happy  tears,  as  she  was 
folded  tightly  in  certain  capacious  arms,  and  patted  and 
rocked  to  and  fro  for  a  moment. 

"  My  poor  girl  !  " 

Being  released,  she  was  made  known  in  turn  to  three 
luminous-eyed  young  girls,  whose  pure,  clear  cheeks  and 
brows  shone  under  the  southern  abundance  of  black 
hair.  Having  gone  to  their  successive  embraces,  the  cere 
mony  of  introduction  to  her  uncle,  who  kissed  her,  and 
his  son,  a  straight,  tall  young  man,  who  shook  hands  with 
her  warmly,  was  accomplished,  and  they  all  went  into  the 
dining-room. 

"  I  thought  you  would  not  care  to  go  up  stairs  ;  you 
must  be  hungry,"  said  Mrs.  Echols,  in  the  vibrant,  melo 
dious  southern  voice. 

"  I  am  not  very  hungry,"  she  said,  drawing  off  her 
gloves. 

She  felt  a  pleasurable  excitement.  Mrs.  Echols  let  her 
keep  her  hat  upon  her  crumpled  hair,  and  made  her  sit 
by  her  side  at  the  long  table,  saying  as  she  poured  tea, 
ii 


160  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  We  thought  it  would  be  pleasanter  to  wait  on  you 
and  have  tea  all  together — we  take  it  rather  late,  you 
know  ;  we  weren't  right  sure  you  would  come  ;  but  Mr. 
Echols  thought  we  had  better  take  the  chance.  And  we 
are  certainly  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear,"  she  said,  giving 
the  intensive  its  peculiar  Virginia  emphasis  and  value,  for 
Mrs.  Echols  was  not  a  native  of  Maryland. 

"  Yes  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  girls. 

"  What  shall  I  put  in  your  tea  ? "  asked  her  aunt,  as  the 
talk  became  general. 

The  table  was  almost  overladen  with  every  species  of 
warm  bread,  conserve  and  cake.  Little  crochetted  white 
mats  intervened  between  the  plates  and  the  otherwise 
uncovered  board.  Two  negro  boys  went  deliberately 
about  answering  the  commands  of  the  girls  and  Mrs. 
Echols,  which  were  oftenest  to  offer  something  to 
Constance  ;  at  other  times  they  stood  vacantly  still. 

Constance  looked  interestedly  about  the  table  ;  the  girls 
amiably  returned  her  vague  smile,  and  she  felt  a  sudden 
and  wholly  unusual  liking  for  the  quiet,  sweet,  serious 
face  of  the  eldest,  who  sat  next  her  father  at  the  further 
end  of  the  table.  Unlike  her,  the  two  other  girls  were  not 
tall,  and  their  forms  were  of  the  generous  southern  type. 
Jacinth  had  the  delicate,  clear-cut  northern  features  of 
her  father.  Her  hair  was  worn  drawn  straight  back  from 
her  forehead  in  the  trying  classical  manner,  and  her  effect 
was  altogether  simple,  direct  and  charming. 

Helen  and  Ethel  had  sweet,  round  faces,  from  which 
their  bright,  restless  eyes  looked  good-humoredly  out 
upon  a  world  which  they  seemed  to  find  agreeable. 
Their  father's  slim  person  confronted  them  from  the  foot 
of  the  table.  From  time  to  time  as  he  talked,  his  keen, 
gentle  face  relaxed,  and  his  dry,  shaven  lips  wrinkled  in 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  161 

a  fine  smile.  In  the  custom  of  the  day  he  wore  no  beard, 
and  the  crisp  lines  of  his  visage  were  unconcealed.  He 
talked  to  Constance  in  a  rapid,  facile  way,  and  they  all 
joined  in  an  obvious  effort  to  give  her  generous  welcome, 
and  to  make  the  desolate  girl  forget  that  she  had  not 
always  known  them.  It  seemed  to  Constance  that  she 
was  compassed  about  with  friendliness,  with  sympathy, 
with  secure  repose.  She  looked  forward  to  many  happy 
days  made  vital  by  the  charitable  labors  which  she  hoped 
to  emerge  from  this  peaceful  citadel  to  accomplish. 

She  felt  like  crying  for  happiness,  and  instead  she 
laughed  with  these  kind  people  as  she  had  not  laughed 
since  her  father's  death. 

When  her  aunt  came  to  her  room  to  bid  her  good-night, 
she  fell  upon  her  neck,  and  tried  to  whisper  her  gratitude, 
and  then  she  said  she  feared  she  must  have  seemed 
wickedly  happy.  Mrs.  Echols  smiled  with  a  thoughtful 
sympathy  in  her  eyes,  telling  her  that  was  impossible,  and 
adding  kindly  that  "  whatever  we  might  wish,  we  should 
not  let  the  dead  always  shadow  our  lives.  The  living 
had  rights  as  well." 

"  Ah  !  you  did  not  know  my  father,"  exclaimed  Con 
stance. 

"  No,  no,  dear,  and  I  can  not  presume  to  touch  your 
grief  ;  only  remember  that  the  world  was  not  made  for 
that.  We  were  meant  to  be  happy  here,  whatever  the 
cynics  say.  If  we  are  not  the  blame  is  ours.  Good 
night,"  she  added,  and  kissed  her  again. 

Mrs.  Echols  was  of  a  comfortable  motherly  figure  ; 
her  gray  hair  was  dressed  upon  little  combs  and  hung 
in  puffs  above  her  ears,  while  its  unfailing  abundance  was 
caught  up  behind  in  a  large  coil.  Constance  looked 
after  her  with  a  spontaneous  love  in  her  eyes,whichshe  re- 


1 62  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

membered  awarding  to  very  few  on  such  an  acquaintance. 
"  We  were  meant  to  be  happy  here."  Her  own  narrow 
experience,  she  reflected  with  melancholy,  did  not  sanc 
tion  the  theory.  But  it  was  certainly  a  pleasant  and  flat 
tering  one.  Apparently  her  aunt's  family  accepted  it  in 
good  faith.  They  were,  at  least,  a  delightful  exemplifi 
cation  of  its  efficacy,  and  Constance  fell  asleep  with  a 
wandering  memory  of  similar  expressions  of  Mr.  March. 

Quinnimont  lay  with  the  early  sun  bright  on  its  white 
dwellings  and  spires  as  she  came  out  alone  upon  the 
deep  piazza,  with  its  robust  Corinthian  pillars  next  morn 
ing.  The  house  stood  on  a  leafy  eminence  without  the 
town,  and  Quinnimont  was  in  a  wide,  cultured  valley. 
Just  below  her  she  perceived  a  small  lake.  A  cool  breeze, 
sprung  from  the  mountains  that  fringed  the  horizon, 
swept  the  broad  plain  and  the  lake,  and  played  with  the 
errant  strands  of  her  hair. 

"  How  much  you  look  like  your  mother  !  "  exclaimed 
her  aunt  in  the  breakfast-room,  as  she  took  her  cheeks 
between  her  hands  and  kissed  her  good  morning. 

"  Do  I  ?  "  asked  Constance,  joyfully.  "  Father  used  to 
say  so." 

The  girls  came  down  one  by  one  arrayed  in  the  invari 
able  southern  morning  dress  of  white,  winning  the  eye 
with  its  laundered  freshness,  and  greeted  her  with  the 
same  gentle  good  will.  She  began  to  feel  that  she  was 
to  find,  not  mere  shelter,  but  a  home  among  these  amiable 
kinswomen — and  kinsmen  she  added,  when  she  had 
talked  with  her  uncle  for  some  time  after  breakfast, 
and  had  been  driven  to  Quinnimont  by  Arthur,  his 
son. 

During  the  day  her  aunt  and  the  girls  showed  her  the 
house,  which  rather  astonished  her  by  its  vastness.  The 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  163 

great  hall  was  in  itself  an  immense  apartment.  A  com 
pany  of  horse  might  almost  have  manoeuvred  in  it.  The 
innumerable  rooms  gave  one  a  sense  of  freedom  and 
spaciousness  commonly  reserved  for  buildings  of  more 
public  use.  Yet  it  was  all  very  home-like,  and  the  rooms 
were  richly  decorated  in  the  taste  of  the  day.  The  claw- 
foot  secretaries  and  book-cases  were  massively  embroid 
ered  in  brass;  the  furniture  glistened  with  the  double 
lustre  of  hair-cloth  and  mahogany.  On  the  walls  there 
were  some  good  engravings  of  intolerable  subjects.  Of 
these  the  grimmest  was  a  series  of  representations  of  a 
variety  of  future  states,  and  the  most  lightsome  an  alle 
gory,  in  four  pieces,  of  the  seasons  in  the  life  of  man.  In 
a  corner  of  the  drawing  room  hung  a  brave  colored  like 
ness  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  the  unapproachable  jaunti- 
ness  of  Highland  costume,  and  above,  a  portrait  of  his 
rare  father  in  the  kingly  robes.  The  inoffensive  little 
girl  with  a  kitten  in  her  arms  was  there,  and  she  smiled 
meekly  at  her  brother  opposite,  arrayed  in  sailor  costume 
and  roiling  a  swollen  hoop.  Above  the  harpsichord  was 
disposed  a  pair  of  curious  bas-reliefs  in  copper,  portray 
ing  certain  terror-spreading  Indian  chiefs  in  the  French- 
Indian  wars.  Two  lugubrious  ladies  in  worsted  were 
represented  visiting  the  willow-shadowed  tomb  of  Wash 
ington.  There  was,  of  course,  a  profusion  of  family 
portraits,  for  the  most  part  excellent,  to  be  dimly  seen  at 
this  time  through  their  summer  defence  of  gauze.  Among 
these  was  the  notable  figure  of  Mrs.  Echols's  father  in  the 
Continental  uniform.  The  bare,  polished  floors  were 
strewn  with  Indian  rugs,  which  one  of  Mr.  Echols's  sea 
faring  friends  had  brought  home  to  him,  and  from  the 
same  source  were  various  strangely  wrought  daggers  and 
ivory  puzzles.  Mr.  Echols,  as  a  New  Englander,  had  the 


1 64  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

northern  habit  of  reading,  and  his  library  was  good.  In 
the  drawing  room  the  tables  were  covered  with  English 
periodicals  and  newspapers,  as  well  as  the  Baltimore  and 
Philadelphia  journals. 

Constance  stole  out  alone  after  supper  into  the  grounds 
and  wandered  among  the  big,  arching  trees,  which  let  the 
moonlight  through  their  occasional  openings  to  illumine 
her  thoughtful,  happy  face.  She  was  glad  to  snatch  a 
few  moments  of  solitude  that  she  might  feel  to  the  full  the 
blessed  reality  of  this  refuge  for  her  sad  heart.  Yet  it 
pleased  her  to  see  Jacinth  walking  over  the  lawn  after  a 
few  moments,  and  coming  toward  her.  Constance's  quick 
liking  for  her  face  when  they  had  first  met,  had  been 
confirmed  ;  but  she  had  not  yet  talked  alone  with  her. 
She  came  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  trees  now,  and  made 
herself  known. 

"  We  wondered  where  you  had  gone,"  said  Jacinth,  as 
they  met.  "  But  I  hadn't  come  to  look  for  you.  It's 
sometimes  so  much  pleasanter  to  be  alone." 

"  That  depends  on  what  company  one  gives  up  for 
solitude,  doesn't  it  ? "  asked  Constance,  smiling. 

"  Not  always,  I  think,"  returned  Jacinth,  gently.  "  Our 
best  friends  are  no  better  intruders  on  some  of  our  moods 
than  enemies." 

They  walked  on  in  the  moonlight  away  from  the  house. 
Friendly  chemical  elements  have  no  formalities  to  dis 
charge  before  mingling  ;  and  an  hour  may  be  as  fruitful 
as  a  lifetime  in  uniting  sympathetic  spirits.  So  it  hap 
pened  that  these  young  cousins,  more  surely  affiliated  by 
common  feelings  than  by  common  blood,  drew  near  each 
other. 

The  possession  of  a  girl  friend  was  an  almost  wholly 
fresh  experience  to  Constance,  and  at  the  time  a  singu- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  165 

larly  wholesome  one,  for  it  took  her  out  of  herself  and 
helped  her  to  begin  to  people  anew  the  world  out  of 
which  her  father  had  gone.  But  it  was  sweeter  to  her, 
because  more  like  her  dear  father  himself,  to  find  out  a 
friend  in  Mr.  Echols.  Few  things  had  ever  seemed  more 
charming  to  Constance,  than  his  humorous  goodness, 
gentleness,  and  wisdom.  She  had  known  others  blessed 
with  humorous  perception,  a  great  many  with  the  talent 
of  saying  clever  things  ;  but  those  faculties,  it  seemed  to 
her,  were  as  far  as  possible  beneath  the  supreme  grace  of 
living  humorously.  She  rather  enjoyed  thinking  that 
every  one  would  not  understand  this  last  venturesome 
phrase  if  she  were  to  use  it ;  but  she  had  neither  a  wish 
to  make  her  thought  public,  nor  much  desire  to  go  far  in 
attempting  to  describe  to  herself  the  source  of  her  uncle's 
charm.  She  preferred  to  rejoice  inwardly  in  her  growing 
understanding  of  a  good  man  in  whom  humor  was  not 
only  the  shrewd  friend  of  all  the  virtues,  but  seemed  to 
be  the  parent  of  his  most  lovable  traits. 

Mr.  Echols  was  seldom  merely  witty,  but  he  was  full 
of  droll  whimseys  which  he  enjoyed  making  Constance 
acquainted  with  when  they  began  to  find  themselves  sym 
pathetic  spirits.  She  discovered  him  upon  the  portico 
one  morning,  before  breakfast,  studying  a  map  which  lay 
on  a  chair  before  him. 

"  Do  you  ever  fish,  Constance?"  he  asked,  with  twink 
ling  eyes,  as  she  came  toward  him. 

"  No,  uncle,"  returned  she.  "  Why  ? "  She  smiled  in 
anticipation. 

"  Why,  I  do,  and  I  want  your  company." 

"  You,  uncle  ?  I  didn't  know  you  were  strong  enough 
for  long  tramps." 

"  I'm  not.     The  thought  does  credit  to  your  discern- 


1 66  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

ment.  That  is  the  reason  I  fish  at  home.  Take  a  seat, 
my  dear." 

Constance  took  one  of  the  chairs  on  the  piazza  with  a 
vague  smile. 

He  unfolded  the  map,  on  which  Maryland,  Pennsyl 
vania,  New  Jersey  and  Delaware  were  represented  at 
large,  and  spread  it  on  a  table  before  them.  Constance 
began  to  understand. 

"  I  can't  physically, '  go  fishing,'  as  the  expression  is, 
so  I  make  excursions  in  fancy.  You've  no  idea  what 
long  tramps  I  take — on  the  map — with  the  precious 
advantage  that  I  return  home  as  fresh  as  when  I  started." 

"  Do  you  catch  anything  ?  "  asked  Constance,  amused. 

"  Everything.  Don't  you  see  what  a  field  it  opens  ? 
I  catch  excellent  brook  trout  in  this  stream  you  see  run 
ning  down  through  southern  Pennsylvania.  There  are 
some  very  good  small  fish  nearer  home,  in  the  Antietam. 
In  season  I  am  highlysuccessful  with  shad  in  the  Potomac. 
And  the  Chesapeake — !  I  find  everything  there,  though 
it's  a  rather  long  jaunt.  Suppose  we  try  a  cast  after 
breakfast  ? " 

"  But  I'm  not  an  enthusiast.  I'm  afraid  I  should  be 
tired  before  the  day  is  out,"  laughed  Constance,  finding 
this  admirable  fooling. 

"  Pooh  !'  pooh  !  You  don't  suppose  I  give  the  day  to 
it ;  I've  other  things  to  do.  No,  by  my  method  I  take  a 
long  day's  fishing  in  half  an  hour.  I  can  get  a  pretty 
full  week  out  of  a  morning." 

"  Ah,  then,"  cried  the  girl,  "  let  us  start  at  once  !  If 
we  waited  until  after  breakfast  we  should  have  time  to 
exhaust  the  Potomac,  and  that  would  scarcely  be  fair  to 
the  other  fishermen  !  " 

After  this  they  often  went  on  brief  piscatorical  excur- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  167 

sions,  and  when  later  they  went  gunning  instead,  their 
success  was  phenomenal. 

When  Mr.  Echols  went  to  Quinnimont  to  play  chess 
at  his  club,  she  drove  him  in  the  pony  carriage  which  she 
presently  purchased  for  her  own  use.  While  he  played, 
she  went  about  on  her  own  missionary  errands  among  the 
poor  of  the  place,  who  soon  became  her  fast  adherents. 
Her  charity  was  indeed  a  more  availing  and  less  spas 
modic  matter  than  it  had  been  in  Judea,  and  she  was 
presently  known  in  Quinnimont  as  having  accomplished  a 
genuine  and  important  work.  In  the  drives  home  they 
chatted  of  an  immense  variety  of  things.  Mr.  Echols 
had  been  a  wide  traveller  and  talked  very  well  of  his 
travels,  as  indeed  he  did  of  all  things. 

In  the  evening,  when  they  all  gathered  in  the  drawing 
room,  he  read  to  them  in  his  gentle,  sonorous  voice,  or 
oftener  played  a  rubber  at  whist  with  them,  or  at  cribbage 
with  Constance  alone. 

In  the  midst  of  this  happy  life  Constance  often  gave 
backward  thoughts  to  days  which  seemed  strangely  unre 
lated  to  the  present.  She  could  very  well  have  believed 
that  many  things  which  she  remembered  had  happened  to 
some  other  girl  whom  she  knew  and  felt  an  interest  in. 
One  thing,  which  she  still  never  recalled  without  a  shame 
ful  blush,  she  would  have  gladly  transferred  to  another's 
memory  and  conscience,  but  the  recollection  of  it  dwelt  in 
her  with  an  anguishing  pang,  and  this,  with  the  thought 
of  her  father — become  a  less  prominent  but  not  less 
poignant  thought — were  the  only  failures  in  her  bliss. 

Occasionally  she  devoted  a  faintly  remorseful  glance 
to  March.  The  shame  and  mortification  which  he  had 
generously  forborne  to  let  her  see  must  have  been  keen 
enough.  She  wished  that  he  had  given  her  opportunity  to 


1 68  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

say  her  gratitude,  to  beg  forgiveness  for  the  self-will  that 
had  brought  him  such  pain.  But  in  her  most  enlightened 
moments  she  doubted  whether  she  would  have  given 
expression  to  these  feelings  if  his  departure  had  been  less 
hasty.  March  had  never  been  to  her  quite  as  other  men. 
She  was  aware  that  there  were  things  which  she  could 
not  say  to  him.  And  now  a  wall  seemed  to  be  building 
itself  between  her  and  her  past  life.  When  she  climbed 
up  occasionally  to  take  a  peep,  she  hastily  got  down, 
shuddering.  The  memory  of  her  treatment  of  him  was 
one  of  the  things  that  made  her  retrospects  brief.  As  she 
looked  back  at  her  whole  relation  with  him,  despite  certain 
golden  reminiscences,  which  she  knew  not  where  else  to 
parallel,  it  took  on  an  intolerable  aspect.  Of  one  thing 
she  was  clear  :  whatever  she  might  once  have  spurred 
herself  to  do,  she  should  not  be  able  to  speak  of  these 
things  if  she  saw  him  again.  The  futility  of  fortifying 
herself  in  advance  against  a  meeting  so  impossible  sud 
denly  touched  her  humorous  sense,  and  she  found  it 
worth  laughing  at. 

A  moment  later  she  said  to  herself  that  destinies  so 
intimately  mingled  did  not  disentangle  themselves  with 
facility.  Fate  was  an  ironical  dame  ;  but  her  irony  did 
not  go  so  far.  It  was  impossible. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IT  was  some  months  later,  as  she  sat  one  day  sewing 
with  her  aunt,  that  the  card  of  a  visitor  was  brought  to 
her. 

"  Say  that  I  can't  see  any  one,"  she  said.  Then, 
glancing  at  the  card,  her  face  brightened.  "  Tell  him  I 
will  be  down  at  once." 

Frederick  Lincoln  rose  with  a  glad  smile  on  his  hand 
some  face  as  she  entered,  and  tried  to  say  how  much  it 
rejoiced  him  to  see  her  again.  He  was  evidently  sincere, 
and  Constance,  on  her  part,  felt  the  kind  of  pleasure  in 
his  presence  which  a  breath  of  the  sophisticated,  in 
structed,  refined,  faintly  artificial  city  air  had  always  given 
her  since  she  had  left  New  York.  The  thought  of  it  all 
came  back  to  her  with  a  rush,  and  in  a  moment  she  was 
being  borne  along  upon  fragrant,  memorial  clouds.  The 
life,  the  traditions  and  sentiments  of  which  she  had  been 
so  intimately  part,  returned  to  her  for  the  instant  as  if 
she  had  never  broken  with  them. 

The  young  man's  dress  emphasized  his  urban  manner. 
It  was  irreproachable,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the 
day  ;  but  his  lofty  collar,  the  stock,  the  elaborately  ruf 
fled  shirt,  and  his  fob,  so  far  from  appearing  irrelevant 
spangles,  seemed,  as  he  wore  them,  the  inevitable  adorn 
ments  of  a  gentleman.  He  was  not  tall,  and  for  a  young 
man,  rather  stout.  His  fair  hair  was  cut  close  about  a 


170  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

well-made  head.  He  had  a  prominent  forehead,  and 
large,  alert,  roving  eyes  shaded  by  glasses  which  in  his 
case  had  the  distinguishing  effect.  They  sat  upon  a  nose, 
the  slight  lateral  curve  of  which,  due  to  an  accident  in 
childhood,  was  not  without  the  charm  attaching  to  more 
heroic  scars.  When  wonted  to  it  one  found  himself 
liking  it.  He  kept  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  tapped  his 
knee  lightly  with  it  as  he  talked. 

"  You  will  pardon  me,  Miss  Constance,"  he  said,  as  he 
seated  himself  after  their  greeting,  "  if  I  make  the 
inane  traditional  remark  that  you  have  grown  ;  and  you 
won't  expect  me  to  add  that  you  '  feature  '  your  cousin 
or  your  grandfather  ? " 

He  sat  smiling  at  her  with  great  amiability  ;  and  a  look 
of  ready  tolerance  for  all  the  world. 

"  Yes,  I've  grown,"  assented  Constance,  giving  his 
smile  back,  joyously.  "You  have  given  me  time." 

"  Oh,  I  protest !  It  is  a  long  while  since  you  came 
down  here  in  the  coach,  or  you  wouldn't  say  that.  You 
have  ceased  to  be  physically  reminded  of  the  rocks  and 
bumps  and  hollows.  For  my  part,  I  am  kept  in  remem 
brance  of  them." 

"  It  is  some  time  since  I  left  New  York,"  musingly 
agreed  Constance,  giving  reins  to  her  memory.  "  I 
wonder  you  recall  me.  So  much  must  have  happened 
since  then  in  the  city.  It  is  like  a  deposit  of  geological 
drift  on  the  memory  of  people  who  haven't  been  there  in 
four  years.  You  were  courageous  to  dig  through  to  me, 
Mr.  Lincoln." 

"  I  have  always  thought  of  you,  Miss  Constance,"  he 
answered  her,  reproachfully.  "  We  were  neither  of  us 
very  old  when  we  knew  each  other  so  well,"  said  he,  with 
the  easy  scorn  of  a  young  man  of  twenty-five  for  himself 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  171 

at  twenty-one.  "  But  we  enjoyed  ourselves,  I  suppose, 
just  as  well  as  if  we  had  known  more  ;  or,  at  least,"  he 
made  haste  to  add,  with  a  smile  of  humorous  apology, 
"  I  did." 

"  Those  were  very  happy  days,"  said  Constance,  with 
unconscious  wistfulness.  "  I  have  liked  to  think  of  them, 
to  continue  them  in  imagination.  Do  you  remember  the 
pleasant  things  that  we  used  to  do  ?  " 

"  There  were  a  great  many  of  them." 

"  Yes,  were  there  not  ?  The  long  drives  to  King's 
Bridge,  the  ices  at  Barriere's,  the  skating  and  the  theatre. 
Do  you  recall  the  night  we  saw  Mr.  Cooper  as  Hamlet  ? 
I  have  always  remembered  that.  He  was  capital,  I 
thought,  then." 

"  And  the  routs  at  Mrs.  Schenk's  and  Mrs.  Vander- 
pool's  up  in  Second  Avenue,  and  that  generous  fellow's 
— what  was  his  name? — bachelor,  sister  received  with 
him — " 

"  De  Ranke  ?  " 

"  De  Ranke  ;  that's  it  !  " 

The  topic  proved  fruitful,  and  they  gave  themselves 
up  interestedly  to  the  discussion  of  these  reminiscences 
for  a  long  time.  At  length,  when  a  pause  fell  : 

"  I  wonder  if  you  can  tell  me  where  I  shall  find  a 
friend  of  mine,  who  is  also  a  friend  of  yours  ?  "  asked 
Lincoln. 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Constance,  still  smiling  at 
something  they  had  just  been  saying,  and  bringing  her 
self  to  the  consideration  of  his  question  with  an  effort — 
"  Whom  ?  " 

"  Owen  March." 

"  Owen  March  !    Why,  do  you  know  Mr.  March  ? " 

"  Yes." 


1 72  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  But  he  never  told  me." 

"  Indeed  ?  You  must  have  been  at  a  loss  to  explain 
my  presence  here,  then." 

Constance  put  her  hand  to  her  mouth  and  permitted 
herself  a  joyous  laugh. 

"  Hopelessly  ! " 

Lincoln  promptly  joined  her. 

"  That  is  not  bad.  Don't  suppose  my  stupidity  has 
increased  in  proportion  to  the  time  since  we  met.  I  was 
thinking  of  March." 

"  I  see." 

"  I  am  to  pass  my  vacation  with  him.  But  first  I  came 
here.  I  remembered  that  I  should  see  you." 

"  Ah,  that  is  better  !  But  I  don't  know  why  you  should 
suppose  me  acquainted  with  Mr.  March's  whereabouts. 
He  is  a  great  way  from  here.  I  can  tell  you  that." 

"  Oh,  not  so  far,  I  think,  unless  my  geography  is  all 
out.  What  county  is  this  ?  Everything  goes  by  counties 
in  the  South." 

"  I  can't  say,  I'm  sure — but  Mr.  March  is  not  in  it,  if 
you  mean  that.  He  is  in  England." 

"  He  was.     But  haven't  you  heard  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  curiously  and  passed  her  handker 
chief  quickly  over  her  lips. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  she,  smiling.  "  Do  I  look 
intelligent  ? " 

"  Why,  he  only  went  over  on  account  of  his  brother, 
you  know.  After  his  death " 

"  He  is  dead,  then — his  brother  ?   I  am  very  sorry." 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  need  be.  He  was  a  poor  fel 
low,  I  fancy.  The  younger  son  was  the  favorite.  Sir 
John  was  greatly  grieved  when  he  came  over  here  ;  but 
he  took  it  very  well.  He  thought  it  a  queer  whim." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT  173 

"  Did  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  thought  it  a  little  odd. 
Well,  it  is  odd.  The  younger  sons  of  baronets  don't 
become  dissatisfied  with  the  run  of  things  in  their  native 
land  and  come  across  to  see  what  they  can  do  for  their 
fellow-unfortunates  often — at  least,  not  every  day,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I  always  liked  it  in  him  that  he  had 
the  courage  to  be  different  from  others." 

"  He  was  very  well  off  over  there,"  said  Lincoln. 

"  Certainly,  or  his  bravery  would  not  have  been 
costly.  And  now  he  has  come  back  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  a  long  stay  this  voyage,  he  says.  He  has 
brought  his  colony  with  him  this  time,  and  he  means  to 
remain  and  see  it  started.  It  is  really  a  fine  thing  to  do. 
You  see,  he  is  the  eldest  son  now.  He  will  have  the 
title." 

She  mused  a  moment. 

11  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  is  what  I  expected  you  to  tell  me.  He  wrote 
me  that  Quinnimont  was  the  largest  place  near  him." 

"  Then  he  is  not  far  from  here  ? " 

"  Certainly  not.  He  found  the  place,  I  think,  after 
he  came  to  you  in  Judea.  Do  you  remember  his  going 
away  for  a  day  or  two  while  he  was  with  you  ?  He 
wrote  me  about  it  at  the  time.  It  was  then  he  decided 
upon  it.  He  calls  it  Gerrit,  after  an  American  who  once 
saved  his  life  in  Germany." 

•'  That  is  graceful." 

"  Yes,  March  has  a  way  of  doing  graceful  things,  if 
you  have  noticed.  It  would  be  culpable  in  any  one 
else  ;  but  his  manner  implies  that  you  invariably  do  the 
graceful  thing  yourself,  or  at  least  that  you  only  lack 


174  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

opportunity.  When  one  thinks  of  it,  I  suppose,  that  is 
a  graceful  attitude  itself.  But  it  is  astonishing  how 
readily  one  forgives  it." 

Constance  listened  smilingly  ;  but — "  Gerrit  ?  "  she 
mused.  "Gerrit  ?  Oh,  I  know  !  It  is  the  English  col 
ony  near  Afton.  My  uncle  told  us  of  it  only  the  other 
day.  And  we  had  a  long  talk  about  it.  He  thought  it 
a  hopeful  sign,  and  I  remember  he  said  that  such  a  plan, 
well  carried  out,  would  be  a  great  thing  for  the  country. 
I  suppose  it  would.  And  Mr.  March  is  at  the  head  of 
it,"  she  ended,  absently. 

"  You  know  of  the  place,  then  ?    You  can  direct  me." 

"  My  uncle  can,"  said  Constance,  remotely,  her 
thoughts  still  surveying  distant  regions.  "  It  is  on  the 
National  Pike."  Then,  returning  to  herself,  "  You  will 
not  go  on  to-night  ?  "  she  said,  cordially.  "  You  must 
let  us  keep  you  until  to-morrow." 

Lincoln  assented  readily  to  this  agreeable  proposal, 
and  she  presently  led  him  out  upon  the  lawn,  where  her 
aunt  was  seated  with  Jacinth. 

"  You  know,  Miss  Constance,"  he  said,  as  they  went 
down  the  steps,  "  I  was  to  have  seen  you  at  Judea.  It 
was  all  planned.  I  was  to  run  down  and  spend  a  few 
days  with  March.  Will  you  let  me  say,"  asked  the  young 
man,  with  gentle  earnestness,  "  that  it  will  always  be  one 
of  my  regrets  that  my  slothful  movements  deprived  me 
of  seeing  your  father  again  ?  You  won't  think  it  strange 
that  I  haven't  spoken  of  your  sorrow  before  ?  " 

Constance's  eyes  filled. 

"  Ah,  I  see  that  I  ought  to  have  let  you  take  my  sym 
pathy  for  granted.  Men  always  bungle  these  things. 
But  your  father  was  very  dear  to  me." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;    and  he  was  fond  of  you.      Don't  miscon- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  175 

strue  my  weakness.     I  am  glad  to  have  any  one  speak 
of  him  who  cared  for  him.     It  somehow  helps  me." 

Her  tears  were  gone  as  they  came  up  to  the  group  on 
the  lawn,  but  she  introduced  him  in  a  subdued  voice  and 
turned  away  immediately.  Lincoln  needed  no  support 
ing  impulse  to  a  conversation  for  which  he  straightway 
made  himself  responsible  ;  and  he  was  even  presently 
upon  almost  jocular  terms  with  the  reserved  Jacinth. 

12 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MARCH  rode  over  next  morning.  Lincoln  had  written 
him  that  he  should  stop  as  he  went  through  Quinnimont 
to  see  Constance,  and  this  intimation  that  Miss  Van 
Cleef  had  changed  her  residence  for  one  so  near  Gerrit 
caused  him  a  pleasurable  shock  of  surprise.  He  felt 
that  he  should  like  greatly  to  see  her  again  ;  he  remem 
bered  that  he  owed  her  an  apology  for  his  unavoidably 
abrupt  departure  from  Judea. 

As  to  Miss  Van  Cleef  his  mind  was  far  from  blank. 
He  had  a  group  of  distinct  impressions  regarding  her, 
and  most  of  them  were  in  the  highest  degree  pleasant. 
He  was  greatly  interested  to  know  how  she  had  come 
out  of  her  trial.  Her  love  for  her  father  had  been  deep. 
It  must  have  been  a  cruel  sorrow.  But  he  had  great 
faith  in  her  strength.  She  would  have  issued  from  the 
ordeal  purified,  he  was  sure  ;  if  it  had  not  quite  blighted 
her,  his  knowledge  of  her  informed  him  that  she  would 
have  been  enlarged  and  uplifted  by  experience.  The 
expression  of  her  personality  had  been  systematically 
repressed  under  the  strict  conditions  of  her  life  in  Judea. 
In  her  emancipation  he  wondered  what  new  light  had 
come  to  her,  or  rather  how  the  removal  of  the  close 
shade,  through  which  her  abundant  light  had  hitherto 
shone  fitfully,  had  affected  her.  He  said  to  himself  that 
he  was  fortunate  to  have  the  opportunity  of  satisfying 
his  curiosity  to  see  her  again,  and,  after  giving  Lincoln 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  177 

time  to  reach  Quinnimont,  he  rode  over  to  that  compact, 
clean  little  town. 

Lincoln,  catching  sight  of  him  as  he  came  cantering 
up  the  shaded  avenue,  left  the  breakfast-table  and  ran 
out  with  his  napkin  in  his  hand  to  meet  him.  They  made 
their  mutual  greetings  as  they  walked  to  the  stable 
together,  leading  March's  horse.  When  they  returned 
to  the  house  breakfast  was  over,  and  a  graceful  family 
group  was  seated  on  the  long  portico. 

Constance  sat  on  the  top  step  comfortably  curled 
against  one  of  the  fat  pillars.  She  rose  with  a  glad  smile 
as  she  observed  March,  and  stood  waiting  on  the  steps. 
Their  hands  met  in  a  clasp  of  hearty  friendliness,  and 
March  remained  a  moment  smiling  up  at  her  as  she 
stood  above  him. 

"  You  are  looking  well,"  was  all  he  found  to  say. 
Then  he  passed  quickly  by  her  and  took  the  hands 
whose  owners  Lincoln  named  to  him. 

A  tingling  current  ran  through  him  from  her  touch 
which  these  handclasps  did  not  stale.  He  seated  him 
self  in  the  chair  which  one  of  the  younger  girls  brought 
him,  with  an  infinitely  agreeable  sense  of  calm  excite 
ment,  which  he  made  no  attempt  to  account  for. 

The  heavily  turfed  lawn,  from  which  the  morning  dew 
had  scarcely  passed,  wore  a  generous  green.  Its  striking 
breadth  was  flanked  by  double  rows  of  maples  and 
poplars,  and  wandered  down,  after  its  first  noble  sweep, 
among  the  slim,  sun-lit  boles  of  a  scattered  pine  grove. 
The  roadway,  shaded  by  the  maples,  which  above  inter 
laced  among  the  opposite  silver  poplars,  swung  in  a 
liberal  curve  on  either  side  the  wide  space  of  green.  The 
lake  showed  a  narrow,  watery  belt  below  the  pines.  It 
reminded  March  faintly  of  Devonshire. 


178  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Constance  seated  herself  against  the  pillar  again,  and 
with  her  hands  folded  about  her  waist,  listened  quietly 
to  the  phrases  in  which  March  was  expressing  his  admi 
ration  of  the  neighboring  country  to  Mr.  Echols. 

For  the  first  time  March  saw  her  with  her  head  entirely 
uncovered.  The  prim  little  cap,  in  which  he  had  been 
used  to  see  her,  had  lent  her,  he  perceived,  a  foreign 
quality.  It  had  never  been  perfectly  related  to  her,  he 
had  felt  ;  but  he  had  not  imagined  how  much  it  con 
cealed — not  physically,  perhaps  ;  though  the  rich  masses 
of  her  hair  were  an  agreeable  surprise  to  him.  He  had 
merely  not  thoroughly  reckoned  with  the  intense,  ample 
individuality  which  her  cap,  and  kerchief,  and  austere 
gray  gown  had  quelled. 

He  could  not  fancy  one  feeling  free  to  utter  one's  self 
in  such  a  costume  in  the  midst  of  a  carnival.  It  must 
react  upon  the  wearer,  as  the  priestly  robes  do,  without 
reference  to  surroundings  ;  and  surely  her  surroundings 
had  not  been  an  encouragement  to  any  form  of  supple 
ness.  As  he  observed  her,  sitting  where  a  single  shaft 
of  the  keen  morning  sun  fell  upon  the  light  brown  of  her 
hair,  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  close-fitting  black  gown, 
with  its  hints  of  worldly  taste,  the  dainty  little  collar 
which  had  replaced  the  neckerchief,  and  the  uncovered 
head  about  which  the  breeze  hovered  and  played,  were 
the  symbols  of  her  emancipation,  as  her  former  garb  had 
been  the  symbol  of  her  bondage.  The  sun-ray  which 
sought  her  out  from  the  east  end  of  the  portico,  was  the 
informing  light  which  had  come  to  her.  Perhaps  one 
might  even  imagine  the  breeze  which  sported  about  her 
head  the  liberal  atmosphere  in  which  she  was  hence 
forth  to  walk. 

Certainly  she  looked,  despite  the  vague  air  of  sadness 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  179 

which  now  always  accompanied  her,  a  creature  pre 
eminently  at  one  with  the  stirring,  eager,  zestful  world. 
She  was  so  natural  a  figure  in  it,  now  that  he  saw  her 
there,  that  March  said  to  himself  she  had  never  been 
more  than  exiled  from  it. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Echols,  in  answer  to  a  question  from 
March,  "  fairly  old.  We  are  not  very  good  at  the  ancient 
on  this  side  ;  we've  not  been  at  it  long  enough.  But  we 
can  show  excellent  century,  century  and  a-half  mansions 
— that  matter,"  he  pursued,  in  his  laconic,  facile  way, 
with  a  faint  wave  of  his  hand. 

Mr.  Echols  had  a  kind  of  grace  uncommon  with  men. 
His  movements  were  harmonious  ;  his  gestures  had  a 
smooth,  undulating  ease.  When  he  talked  he  leaned  his 
head  slightly  forward,  without  bending  his  body,  in  a  way 
that  was  indefinitely  suggestive  of  a  compliment  to  the 
person  with  whom  he  spoke.  His  lips  wore  the  invete 
rate  phantom  of  a  smile. 

"  Of  course  it's  not  a  fair  race  for  antiquity  with  you 
English.  I  don't  know  that  we  care  to  enter  for  it. 
Though,  Mr.  March,  there  are  the  Indians.  There's 
a  point  or  two  there — Behring  Strait  and  that.  If 
you  don't  bar  them,  there  is  certainly  something  to  be 
said.  Japan  now — that  theory,  you  know.  If  we  are 
trying  for  age  we  must  rely  upon  the  Indian.  I've 
often  thought  that.  That's  why  it's  a  pity  to  treat  him 
as  we  do.  He  ought  to  be  kept  in  a  guarded  treasury 
with  the  other  archives,  instead  of  being  exterminated. 
That  is  like  the  college  of  heralds  sending  out  commis 
sioners  to  cut  down  the  genealogical  trees.  I'm  in  favor 
of  leaving  them  standing.  It's  true  Indian  genealogy 
isn't  first-rate,  but  it's  all  we've  got." 

Mr.  Echols  asked  March  about  his  plans,  and  they  all 


i8o  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

listened  with  interest  as  he  told  how  he  had  brought  over 
and  established  his  colony.  He  admitted  that  it  had  not 
been  easy.  He  was  not  absolute  head  of  the  company, 
and  there  had  been  some  differences.  His  design  of 
combining  a  large  number  of  farm  laborers  and  small 
farmers  with  the  gentlemen  colonists  for  whom  he  had 
made  his  first  explorations  had  not  been  found  to  be  a 
perfectly  simple  affair.  But,  as  this  had  been  his  chief 
point  in  the  entire  matter,  he  had  urged  it.  In  the  end 
he  had  gained  his  wish,  and  all  were  enviably  content 
now. 

"  Feudal — a  kind  of  small  feudal  system  you  are 
establishing  over  there,"  said  Mr.  Echols.  "  I  trust  you 
won't  find  it  necessary  to  call  your  vassals  out  to  render 
military  service." 

"  I  think  you  are  the  nearest  baron,"  returned  March. 
"  I  hope  you  won't  make  me  fight." 

"  No,  I  think  I  prefer  to  claim  as  tenant  in  free  and 
common  socage,  and  when  I  use  my  right  of  piscary  I 
shall  send  you  up  some  fish  out  of  your  own  brook  as 
rent." 

"  It  is  a  kind  of  conspiracy  your  uncle  is  getting  up," 
said  March,  speaking  to  Constance  for  the  first  time. 

The  daintiest  flush  fled  through  her  cheeks.  She  had 
been  observing  him  directly  as  he  turned  toward  her,  and 
summoning  before  her  memory  the  picture  of  a  certain 
memorable  scene  with  the  unsolicited  retinue  of  thoughts 
which  always  accompanied  it.  She  looked  down  with  a 
consciousness  almost  perfectly  new  to  March's  experience 
of  her  before  responding. 

"You  v/ill  find  it  wonderfully  harmless,"  she  said,  at 
length,  with  her  head  lifted  to  its  usual  firm  poise.  She 
let  fall  upon  him  her  serene  and  gently  confident  glance. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  181 

Mrs.  Echols  suggested  that  Jacinth  and  Constance 
introduce  Mr.  March  to  the  beauties  of  the  lake.  Mr. 
Echols  ordered  his  horse  and  chaise  to  drive  his  son  and 
himself  to  town,  and  Lincoln  joined  the  party  which,  in 
obedience  to  Mrs.  Echols's  proposal,  presently  sauntered 
over  the  lawn  toward  the  boat  house. 

Lincoln,  who  had  the  kind  of  faculty  with  young  ladies 
which,  like  purer  forms  of  genius,  is  probably  born  with 
its  possessor,  by  a  delightful  bit  of  management  secured 
Miss  Jacinth  to  himself,  and  left  March  to  push  off  in 
one  of  the  other  skiffs  with  Constance.  This  was  by  no 
means  a  disagreeable  arrangement,  but  it  gave  March  an 
odd  thrill.  He  felt  a  strange  reluctance  now  that  the 
moment  had  come  to  meet  her  so  intimately.  It  had  the 
charms  of  a  voyage  of  discovery,  this  little  row,  but  it 
had  also  its  uncertainties.  He  knew  no  one  to  whom  he 
occupied  so  peculiar  a  relation.  •  Fortunately  few  such 
incidents  as  that  which  distinguished  his  acquaintance 
with  Constance  had  come  in  his  way.  He  remembered 
that  they  had  in  fact  scarcely  met  since  their  most  singu 
lar  excursion  to  the  cemetery.  The  brief  colloquy  at  the 
supper  table  on  the  same  evening  had  been  rendered 
impersonal  by  a  sad  necessity.  Now,  however,  they  would 
encounter  without  interposing  media  of  any  sort. 

Probably  no  impassivity  that  may  be  assumed  at  future 
meetings  ever  sufficiently  defends  a  man  who  has  fruit 
lessly  offered  marriage  to  a  woman  ;  and  with  March 
the  consciousness  of  a  proposition  which  had  committed 
him  to  a  definite  view  of  their  relation  was  very  present 
at  the  moment.  This  view  had  been  perfectly  frank  and 
sincere,  but  it  will  be  confessed  that  his  position  in  con 
sequence  of  it  was  not  without  its  embarrassing  features. 
His  proposal  to  her  had  been  in  the  way  of  a  gentleman's 


1 82  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

obligation.  It  had  seemed  to  him  at  the  time  obviously 
proper,  and  it  had  certainly  been  the  only  thing  suffi 
ciently  in  the  nature  of  reparation  for  the  sad  trouble  his 
presence  in  Judeahad  unconsciously  caused  her.  But  it 
must  clearly  affect  their  intercourse  now  that  they  had 
met  again. 

It  is  to  be  added  that  his  speculations  touching  the 
change  which  he  vaguely  saw  in  her,  and,  more  distinctly 
guessed,  had  reached  the  point  at  which  he  was  both 
eager  to  satisfy  himself  and  reluctant  to  know  all  that 
there  might  be  to  learn.  It  was  plain  that  she  was 
scarcely  at  all  the  young  girl  he  had  known.  But  the 
difference  was  not  certainly  advantageous.  There  had 
been  great  opportunities  in  the  half  year  or  so  since  he 
had  seen  her.  She  had  been  through  a  crucial  trial. 
She  had  entered  on  a  wholly  new  life.  How  had  it  left 
her  ?  On  the  whole,  as  has  been  intimated,  his  attitude 
was  one  of  faith.  But  on  various  scores  he  entered  the 
boat  with  misgiving. 

On  her  part,  Constance  was  not  without  a  sense  of  the 
situation. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  lake  sat  in  a  dense,  even  circle  of  green.  The 
pines,  oaks,  maples,  beeches  and  chestnuts  left  wide 
aisles  in  their  ranks  for  one  who  walked  among  them  ; 
but  on  the  further  side  of  the  sheet  of  water  they  pre 
sented  a  solid  bank  of  green,  scantily  touched  in  the  late 
September  by  the  modest  pigments  with  which  the  un- 
eager  Autumn  paints  the  southern  woods.  It  is  only  in 
the  positive  North  and  indubitable  South  that  Nature 
uses  all  her  color  box  ;  the  half-way  house  is  not  her 
favorite.  The  tree  tops  sloped  to  the  fringe  of  shrubs 
which  on  every  side  saw  their  obeisance  mirrored  in  the 
tranquil  water.  The  house  was  not  visible  from  the  lake, 
which,  indeed,  had  an  indescribable  effect  of  remoteness 
and  solitude. 

Lincoln  had  pushed  out  and  rounded  the  bend  beyond 
the  boat-house  before  the  other  boat  was  launched,  and 
his  skiff  was  not  in  sight  when  March  pulled  out  into  the 
lake.  It  was  one  of  the  perfect  days  which  glorify  the 
Autumn  everywhere.  The  air  was  soft  and  perhaps 
faintly  warm.  One  did  not  know.  It  certainly  was  not 
cool.  The  vaguest  and  most  respectful  breeze  imaginable 
made  its  effect,  like  a  true  artist,  without  obtrusion.  It 
embroidered  itself  upon  the  water  in  a  lacework  as  fine 
as  a  cobweb.  The  sun  had  forgotten  its  vicious  habit 
of  heat  and  shed  now  only  a  glow  to  make  the  heart  glad. 
In  the  way  the  painter  evolves  from  his  model,  his 
observations  of  a  thousand  women,  and  his  imagination 


1 84  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

of  what  one  woman  should  be,  the  perfect  figure  that  we 
know,  the  day  seemed,  to  an  admirable  pattern,  to  have 
added  its  memories  of  all  the  gentle  days  that  ever  were, 
and  illumined  it  all  with  its  own  graceful  fancies  of  the 
day  that  might  be.  A  silence  which  nothing  broke  but 
the  mewing  of  a  catbird  and  the  mournful  note  of  the 
crows  that  from  time  to  time  flapped  above  the  boat 
toward  their  perch  across  the  lake  seemed  to  have  taken 
possession  of  the  world  ;  and  the  loitering  clouds  looked 
down  on  it  all  out  of  their  stainless  cup  of  blue. 

March  pulled  vigorously  down  the  lake  for  a  few 
moments ;  then,  bringing  the  skiff  gradually  about, 
directed  it  toward  a  point  upon  the  further  shore  at 
which  a  line  of  alders  leaned  out  over  the  water  as  if 
seeking  the  embrace  of  sisters  that  never  came.  It  was 
pleasantly  cool  in  their  shade,  and  when  he  had  reached 
it  he  let  the  boat  drift  and  sat  with  his  knee  in  his  hands 
looking  absently  past  Constance,  who  sat  in  the  stern. 
They  had  exchanged  the  necessary  words  at  the  boat- 
house  ;  but  a  silence  had  fallen  upon  them  since  they  set 
out. 

"  We  ought  to  have  some  experiences  to  exchange," 
said  March,  at  length,  smiling  musingly. 

"I  don't  know  where  we  should  begin,"  returned  the 
girl.  , 

"  Has  so  much  happened  ? " 

"  Everything  !  Nothing  seems  ever  to  have  happened 
before.  I  believe  you  are  the  most  recent  occurrence." 

"  Indeed  !  I  supposed  I  had  been  happening  a  long 
time." 

"  You  have  come  back.  I  did  not  think  you  would 
come  back." 

"  You  underrated  my  interest." 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  185 

"  You  seem  to  believe  in  us,"  she  said.  "As  I  told  you 
once,  such  faith  seems  very  generous.  But  I  never  sup 
posed  you  would  give  it  such  practical  form." 

"  I  hope  you  approve." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  have  thought  of  it.  If 
those  people  were  as  wretched  as  you  used  to  tell  me,  it 
must  be  a  great  thing  for  them.  Even  for  the  better 
class  it  is  such  an  opening,  I  should  think.  A  woman 
can't  know  much  about  these  things,  of  course.  But  it 
seems  wise  and  good — very  good.  It  is  the  kind  of 
work  I  should  like  to  do." 

March's  eyes  kindled. 

"  You  don't  know  how  glad  you  would  make  me  if  you 
could,"  he  said.  "A  woman's  hand — the  hand  of  a 
strong,  clear-sighted  woman — is  exactly  our  present 
need.  You  see,  the  men  brought  their  families,  and  now, 
until  we  can  get  the  houses  built,  there  is  such  perplexity — 
such  a  host  of  those  little  hourly  vexations  that  draw  upon 
the  force  which  ought  to  go  into  the  project  itself,  as  I 
can't  begin  to  tell  you." 

"  And  you  think  I  could  help  you  ?  " 

"  You  would  be  invaluable,  Miss  Van  Cleef.  There  is 
an  infinite  number  of  difficulties  that  only  a  woman  can 
smooth.  You  would  see  them  at  once.  'They  would  not 
be  hard,  I  think,  to  you.  The  poor  women  are  not  used 
to  your  American  ways,  and,  living  as  they  are  obliged 
to,  yet,  half  in  bivouac,  their  trials  seem  to  them  very 
considerable.  Yes,  you  could  do  a  great  deal/  You  see 
that  I  am  taking  you  very  much  at  your  word." 

"  You  are  very  good.  I  am  sure  I  did  not  wish  to  be 
taken  at  anything  less.  You  don't  know  what  a  prospect 
you  open  to  me  !  " 

"  I  hope  I  don't  open  too  much  hard  work." 


1 86  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Whatever  it  costs  I  am  sure  I  shall  enjoy  it.  I  have 
my  little  charities  in  Quinnimont,  but  they  leave  me 
abundance  of  time.  And,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  can't  think 
where  I  should  find  more  pleasure  than  in  employing  it 
in  that  way." 

She  leaned  her  elbows  on  her  lap  and  clasped  her 
hands  thoughtfully  before  her.  Finally  she  looked  up 
with  a  little  smile. 

"  Perhaps  my  enthusiasm  seems  strange  to  you.  You 
don't  remember  my  concerning  myself  much  about  these 
things?" 

"  You  were  always  very  good." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  meant  to  be.  But  it  was  a  poor 
goodness,  I  am  afraid,  with  superficial  roots.  It  never 
accomplished  anything.  It  spent  its  time  in  intending 
fairly  well.  Perhaps  it  is  not  much  better  yet,  but  I  hope 
I  have  bought  some  experience." 

"  I  trust  it  has  not  been  too  expensive." 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"  I  suppose  I  paid  the  market  price.  It  doesn't  often 
fall,  I  believe." 

"  No  ;  though  the  supply  is  always  so  much  larger 
than  the  demand,  I'm  afraid  we  shall  never  be.  wise 
enough  to  buy  it  cheaply.  If  there  is  ever  an  improve 
ment  I  hope  it  will  be  in  putting  it  on  sale  in  the  second 
hand  shops."  . 

"  Yes,  it  seems  sad  that  we  can't  get  it  at  some  one's 
else  expense.  They  are  always  offering  it  at  bankrupt 
sales,"  smiled  she.  "  Ah,  if  I  could  have  taken  what  my 
father  offered,  what  his  whole  life  seemed  to  say  !  " 

"  Perhaps  it  has  come  to  you  since.  It  has  not  ceased 
to  be  good." 

March  pulled  aimlessly  at  the  oars. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  187 

"  Since  !    Ah,  since  !  " 

"  As  you  say,  a  great  deal  has  happened." 

"  So  much  !  " 

March  took  up  the  oars  and  pulled  for  two  or  three 
hundred  yards.  He  stopped  before  a  tiny  cascade  which 
whitened  the  face  of  a  moss-tufted  slope  of  rock.  The 
falling  water  made  a  cooling  sound  with  its  shivering, 
rustling  slip  over  the  stone  ;  it  found  its  way  into  the  lake 
by  a  tortuous  channel,  and  they  fancied,  as  they  looked 
over  the  boat's  side,  that  they  could  see  where  the  lake 
drank  it  in  below  the  surface,  and  that  its  coming  made 
the  water  clearer. 

"  I  have  not  liked  to  say  how  much  I  have  felt  for  you 
in  your  affliction,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"  You  must  know  that  I  can't  thank  you  for  the 
kindness  that  made  things  so  much  easier  at  the  time. 
I  didn't  know  of  it  until  afterward,  and  you  did  not  give 
me  an  opportunity  to  express  my  feeling." 

"  It  was  not  entirely  in  my  choice,"  he  answered  to 
the  mrld  reproach  in  her  tone. 

"  Yes,  they  have  told  me.  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said, 
frankly. 

"  We  had  not  known  each  other  very  well,  I  am  afraid. 
Perhaps  we  should  have  remained  a  little  distant  in  spirit 
if  things  had  been  different.  But  he  was  my  brother.  It 
was  very  bitter." 

u  It  must  have  put  new  difficulties  in  the  way  of  your 
American  plan,"  said  Constance. 

"  Yes,  it  did  not  make  my  father  more  willing  to  let 
me  leave  home.  He  has  never  more  than  yielded  to  my 
project." 

"  But  you  will  go  back  ?  " 

"  After  a  while — yes." 


1 88  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Your  unfortunates  have  their  claims,  but  they  have 
not  all  the  claims,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  but  I  must  see  them  settled.  There  are  a  great 
many  things  to  be  done  yet.  I'm  ploughing  up  the 
ground,  so  to  speak." 

"  I  trust  you  will  gather  a  large  crop,"  she  returned, 
smiling. 

March  pulled  slowly  over  to  the  boat-house  and  put  up 
the  skiff.  Constance,  as  she  walked  up  the  path,  was  reflect 
ing  upon  the  possibilities  of  effective  charity  which  his 
proposition  discovered  to  her  imagination.  It  would  be 
the  fortunate  sort  of  work  from  which  one  saw  direct 
returns.  It  was  like  doing  a  small  tradesman's  business 
and  casting  up  one's  profits  at  the  end  of  the  day  to  a 
cent. 

Constance  was  not  without  the  weakness  of  her  sex  for 
material  facts.  A  pound  that  one  could  see  and  handle 
was  better  than  a  ton  which  one  could  only  fancy.  She 
had  a  despairing  feeling  about  some  of  her  work  that  it 
was  like  dropping  stones  into  a  pool.  Doubtless  it  filled 
it  up,  but  she  feared  that  she  should  not  live  to  see  the 
water  perceptibly  displaced.  She  tried  to  have  faith,  and 
the  infirmity  which  led  her  to  long  for  visible  results  was 
far  from  the  poor  lust  that  they  might  be  seen  of  men. 
But  she  could  not  help  desiring  to  see  them  herself.  In 
the  work  which  March  proposed  to  her  at  Gerrit  she 
hoped  to  be  able  to  use  her  orderly  broom,  so  to  speak, 
and  to  see  the  dust  fly,  and  she  tried  to  humble  her  con 
fidence — after  a  habit  which  had  not  been  familiar  to  her 
some  months  before — that  she  was  capable  of  this  mis 
sionary  undertaking. 

March  was  thinking  of  the  evidences  of  the  change  in 
her  of  which  his  fancy  had  given  him  hints.  The  lumin- 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  189 

ous  and  far-reaching  nature  of  it  was  a  kind  of  scandal 
to  his  recent  doubts  of  its  character.  The  question 
whether  it  was  a  gain  was  like  an  inquiry  whether  fol 
iage  was  an  addition  to  a  tree.  It  seemed  a  perfectly 
relevant  adornment.  It  sprang  as  naturally  from  the 
original  substance  of  her  character  as  leaves  in  Spring 
drink  the  sap  waiting  their  use  and  leap  out  upon  the 
sleeping  branches. 

The  two  were  amply  occupied  with  these  thoughts  as 
they  went  up  toward  the  house,  and  there  appeared  to  be 
a  tacit  understanding  between  them  that  their  acquaint 
ance  was  intimate  enough  to  warrant  the  long  silence 
which  neither  was  inspired  to  break  until  they  reached 
the  piazza,  steps. 

"  It  is  arranged,  I  believe,  Mr.  March,"  said  Constance, 
"  that  you  and  Mr.  Lincoln  are  to  spend  the  night,  so 
that  you  have  time  for  anything.  Do  you  want  to  help 
me  get  some  peaches  ? " 

March  professed  his  eagerness,  and  when  she  had  gone 
in  and  found  a  basket  she  explained  to  him,  as  they  walked 
around  the  house  and  into  the  garden,  that  she  meant 
the  fruit  for  an  invalid,  to  whom  she  would  take  it  "when 
she  drove  to  Quinnimont  next  morning. 

"  You  know  you  are  going  out  to  Gerrit  to-morrow," 
said  March. 

She  smiled. 

"  How  should  I  know  it  ?  " 

"  I  had  hoped  you  would  guess   I  should  want  you." 

"  You  put  too  much  faith  in  my  imagination." 

"  I  trust  I  don't  rely  too  much  on  its  friendliness  to 
the  project  now  that  it  is  before  you.  Should  you  like 
to  see  the  place  ?  " 

He  wished  to  hear  her  say  it. 


1 90  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

11  Of  all  things,"  she  answered,  quietly,  with  genuine 
wishfulness.  "  I  will  have  the  peaches  sent  into  town." 

When  they  came  to  the  tree  he  took  hold  of  a  low- 
growing  branch  and  shook  it  quickly.  A  shower  of  the 
rosy-faced  fruit  fell  about  them. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  climb  it,  Mr. 
March,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  I  might  give  Mrs.  Jewett 
the  bruised  ones,  for  she  doesn't  see  any  kind  often,  but 
they  look  so  much  more  tempting  when  they  are  perfect, 
and  she  is  not  well." 

March  swung  himself  readily  into  the  tree.  It  was  rather 
high  for  a  peach  tree,  and  he  mounted  to  a  perch  among 
the  upper  branches  before  he  found  a  point  from  which 
he  could  reach  the  finest  fruit.  Then  as  he  began  to 
pick,  Constance  suggested  that  he  had  forgotten  the 
basket.  He  looked  about  him. 

"  I'm  rather  too  well  placed  to  come  down,"  he  said. 
"  Suppose — would  you  mind  holding  your  dress  ?  I  will 
toss  them  into  it." 

Constance  laughed. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  the  least  I  can  do,  since  you  sacri 
fice  your  dignity  to  climb  a  tree  for  me." 

She  caught  up  the  corners  of  her  skirt  the  least  bit  and 
kneeling  down,  looked  up  at  him  with  a  delicious  laugh. 
She  held  the  skirt  far  out  in  a  tight  clutch,  and  retracted 
her  form  with  a  pretty  timidity  from  the  net  which  she 
stretched  before  her.  March  sat  looking  down  upon  this 
graceful  picture  for  a  moment  before  dropping  the  peach 
in  his  hand  into  her  skirt.  She  averted  her  head  while 
she  waited  fearfully  for  the  fall  of  the  fruit.  The  gentle 
curves  of  her  throat  were  turned  up  to  him,  and  the 
admirable  lines  of  her  figure  were  thrown  into  relief.  She 
had  never  looked  so  pretty  to  him. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  191 

"  Dear  me  !  "  She  glanced  up.  "  I'm  quite  ready," 
she  said. 

She  drew  back  her  head  quickly  as  a  large  peach  came 
through  the  air.  It  gave  a  little  shock  to  her  hands  as 
it  fell  into  the  hollow  of  her  skirt.  She  looked  up  again 
as  she  took  it  out  and  put  it  into  her  basket. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  were  afraid  they  would  hit  you," 
said  March,  laughing.  "  I  shall  be  careful." 

"  Yes,  but  make  haste,"  returned  she,  with  a  faint 
blush. 

He  went  on  rapidly  and  she  had  presently  filled  her 
basket. 

March  found  an  agreeable  worldliness  in  her  manner. 
He  did  not  know  why,  but  he  could  not  imagine  this  epi 
sode  happening  in  Judea. 

As  he  left  the  whist  table  that  evening  to  go  to  his 
room  with  Lincoln,  having  endeared  himself  to  Mr.  Echols 
by  beating  him  the  rubber,  in  company  with  Constance, 
he  repeated  to  himself  that  she  was  decidedly  not  the 
young  lady  he  had  known. 
13 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

CARRIAGES  were  considered  a  kind  of  effeminacy  about 
Quinnimont,  and  the  party  which  set  out  for  Gerrit  the 
next  morning,  at  March's  invitation,  was  in  the  saddle, 
save  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Echols,  who  drove  in  a  chaise.  Con 
stance,  Jacinth,  Helen,  and  Ethel  were  mounted,  and  the 
company  went  down  the  shaded  carriageway  at  an  easy 
trot.  The  air  had  a  fresh,  new  minted  feeling,  and 
glowed  and  glistened  in  the  morning  sun.  The  dew  shone 
upon  the  cobwebs  in  the  stubble  of  the  fields  they  gal 
loped  by,  and  the  hollows  of  the  mountains  were  draped 
with  mist.  The  meadows — freaked  by  black  dots,  which 
were  heaps  of  seed  clover  when  one  came  to  look — 
stretched  fair  in  the  young  light  on  every  hand.  The 
golden  rod  was  rubbing  its  eyes  and  looking  up  as  the 
morning  warmed  itself  ;  the  choke  and  elderberries  were 
shedding  jewelled  tears.  It  was  a  morning  in  which  to 
be  glad  of  life,  and,  with  a  lithe  horse  under  one,  there 
was  no  reason  why  one  should  not  find  his  condition  at 
least  an  excellent  imitation  of  content. 

March  asked  Constance  for  a  gallop,  and  giving  their 
horses  rein,  they  left  the  party  for  one  of  those  wild 
flights  which,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  are  dear  to  men  for  the 
momentary  surrender  to  the  latent  animal  in  us  all.  Con 
stance's  cheeks  were  carnation  and  her  eyes  glistened  as 
they  turned  and  let  their  horses  take  them  back  at  a  walk 
to  rejoin  the  company.  Lincoln  and  Jacinth  swept  by 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  193 

them,  and  Constance  watched  them  disappear  as  if  she 
were  thinking  of  their  progress.  Then  she  turned  to 
March  with, 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  you  said  yesterday,  and 
talking  to  aunt  of  it.  It  seems  to  her  an  excellent  idea. 
She  is  anxious  to  assist." 

"  She  is  very  kind,"  said  March.  "  I  could  not  have 
expected  such  sympathy." 

"  Indeed,  I  think  everyone  who  understands  your  aim 
must  wish  to  help  you.  It  is  no  credit  to  them.  But 
what  I  wanted  to  say  was — I  don't  know  that  I  can  say  it 
either." 

"  Don't  try." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  will.  It's  that  if  I  do  anything  at 
Gerrit  I  want  to  feel  that  I  have  a  right  to  do  it  and  a 
reason — a  good,  practical  reason." 

"  Surely "  March  began. 

"  You  don't  understand.  You  would  say  that  charity 
— doing  what  I  can  for  fellow-creatures  who  chanced  to 
be  less  fortunately  placed  than  I — was  reason  enough. 
I  admit  it  ought  to  be,  and,  of  course,  that  is  what  draws 
me  to  it.  But  I  feel  the  obligation  upon  me  to  prove  my 
right  to  exist,  if  you  understand."  She  glanced  at  him 
hesitatingly.  "  I  have  a  great  longing  to  relate  myself 
to  the  suffering  people  that  one  sees  everywhere  about. 
They  are  a  perpetual  reproach,  and  their  faces  seem 
always  to  be  asking  how  I  dare — how  anyone  dare — build 
a  wall  about  oneself  and  live  only  for  the  interesting 
things.  They  are  interesting  !  Oh,  they  are!  And  that 
is  the  trouble.  They  allure  me  even  after  I  fancy  I  have 
come  out  from  behind  my  wall  and  gone  down  a  little 
among  their  wants.  And  so  I  would  like  to  secure  my 
interest  in  this  by  a  good,  sordid  tie.  Mr.  March,  I  think 


IQ4  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

you  must  go  with  me  far  enough  to  comprehend — it's 
true  it  isn't  perfectly  intelligible — but  you  won't  make  fun 
of  me,  and  will  you  let  me  be  a  stockholder  ?  " 

March  did  not  laugh,  but  he  said  with  smiling  sym 
pathy  which  was  as  grateful  to  her  as  assent  for  the 
moment, 

"  In  Gerrit  ?  Why,  it  isn't  a  stock  company  exactly, 
Miss  Van  Cleef." 

"  I  know.  But  somehow  you  can  let  me  have  a  share 
— a  money  share  in  it.  I  didn't  explain  it  all.  It  would 
be  a  curb  upon  my  pretensions — like  some  one  standing 
by  all  the  time  and  smiling  pityingly  on  them.  That  is 
what  I  need — something  to  humble  me.  It  is  like — but 
I  can't  make  myself  clear.  It  must  seem  great  non 
sense." 

"  On  the  contrary,  if  you  will  let  me  say  it,  it's  great 
wisdom.  But,  Miss  Van  Cleef,  Gerrit  is  only  an  experi 
ment.  If  we  had  opened  books  and  our  stock  were  for 
sale  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  risk  anything  upon  our  suc 
cess." 

"  You  believe  it  will  succeed,  don't  you  ?"  she  asked, 
quickly. 

"Certainly.  But  I  should  dislike  to  feel  that  any  one 
was  hanging  anything  on  that  belief.  No,  Miss  Van 
Cleef  ;  wait  until  we  begin  to  declare  dividends  and  then 
we  shall  want  to  present  some  of  the  stock,  if  there  is 
any,  to  our  Lady  Bountiful." 

"You  don't  understand.  I  have  some  money  that 
doesn't  belong  to  me." 

"  The  more  reason " 

"  No,  it  belongs  to  no  one  else.  I  hold  it  in  trust. 
There  are  some  unpaid  bequests  of  my  father  on  which 
the  interest  has  been  accumulating." 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  195 

"  Indeed  !  I  had  an  impression  Mr.  Keator  said  that 
your  father's  estate,  with  the  exception  of  some  small 
legacies  to  his  sisters,  went  to  you." 

"  It  did.  But  there  are  things  that  I  knew  he  would 
like  to  have  done.  I  have  promised  Mr.  Keator  to  build 
him  a  new  hospital  at  Judea,  and — you  remember  telling 
me  of  the  poor  people  in  the  West  Indies  ?  I  have 
decided  to  make  a  permanent  fund  for  the  support  of  a 
Moravian  missionary  there." 

"  You  have  done  a  capital  thing.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am."  After  a  pause  :  "  But,  perhaps,  you  have 
taken  my  word  too  implicitly.  There  may  be — I  sup 
pose  there  must  be  places  where  the  need  is  greater." 

"  Isn't  it  enough  if  we  do  what  seems  a  good  thing  ? 
We  are  not  bound  to  hunt  out  the  best  thing." 

They  met  the  party,  and,  turning,  they  all  cantered 
on.  From  time  to  time  as  he  rode  beside  Constance, 
March  glanced  curiously  at  her.  She  seemed  finely  in 
accord  this  morning  with  the  world  to  which  she  had 
said  she  longed  to  relate  herself  ;  she  appeared  to  have 
her  fingers  on  its  pulse,  and  her  breath  came  and  went 
in  tune  to  all  the  life  about  them.  She  looked  in  every 
direction  as  she  rode  with  joyous  inconsequence.  Her 
eyes  honored  each  perfection  of  the  perfect  autumn 
morning  as  their  course  opened  before  them,  and  her 
head  moved  about  with  the  nervous  liveliness  of  a  bird's, 
while  her  lips  wore  a  satisfied  smile.  Sometimes  she 
galloped  forward  a  little,  and  March  watched  fondly  her 
even,  graceful  rise  and  fall  in  the  saddle,  with  her  body 
bent  slightly  forward  as  if  fearful  that  some  of  the  morn 
ing  might  escape  her. 

The  company  paused  upon  a  hill  to  await  the  chaise 
which  their  rapid  riding  had  left  behind.  The  emi- 


196  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

nence  rose  out  of  a  blooming  valley — the  valley  in 
which  Quinnimont  was.  Along  its  slopes  the  earth  lay 
fallow,  expectantly  turning  its  face  to  the  sun.  In  a 
field  near,  where  the  long  creases  of  the  plough  had  been 
levelled,  the  process  of  sowing  went  on.  Down  in  the 
bottoms  the  corn  waved  and  rustled  in  banks  of  green 
and  yellow.  The  barnyards  were  rich  with  the  sere  evi 
dences  of  harvest,  and  from  among  the  clustering  build 
ings  of  a  farmstead  on  the  knoll  beyond  came  the  sound 
of  the  smart,  rhythmic  tapping  of  flails.  In  the  meadows 
where  the  stubble  lingered  undisturbed  by  the  plough,  the 
weeds  and  clover  were  making  haste  to  green  over  the 
bristling  sticks,  and  an  oily  ether,  such  as  a  stove  exhales, 
danced  and  palpitated  above  them.  The  birds  twittered 
from  the  trees,  and  sang  joyously  as  they  swam  through 
the  sun-lit  air.  The  grasshoppers  went  with  their 
nimble,  ceaseless  leaps  among  the  clover,  sounding  their 
little  harpstrings  as  they  hopped  from  covert  to  covert. 

"  It  is  the  autumn  !  It  is  the  autumn  !  "  they  seemed 
to  say.  "  This  is  our  last  dance.  They  will  turn  the 
lights  out  presently." 

And  the  bastard  daisies,  the  pink  yarrow,  the  golden 
rod,  the  yellow  snapdragon,  the  occasional  tardy  clover 
heads  and  belated  dandelions  that  fringed  the  roadside, 
seemed  filled  with  the  prophetic  thought  and  drank 
eagerly  all  the  sunshine  they  could  find  ;  while  the 
maples  and  sumachs,  the  Virginia  creeper  and  the  black 
berry  vines  running  along  the  stone  walls  were  pranking 
themselves  in  gay  reds,  determined  that  the  season  should 
go  out  in  a  blaze  of  glory,  though  their  ball  dresses  cost 
them  their  existence. 

Gerrit  lay  in  the  next  valley,  beyond  the  mountain 
which  faced  Quinnimont,  and  when  the  chaise  came 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  197 

up,  March  and  Constance  pressed  on  to  the  clambering 
road  which  made  a  way  to  their  destination  through  the 
hills.  The  road  attacked  the  mountain  by  a  brave  steep 
at  first,  then  wound  artfully  about  it,  snatching  an  advan 
tage  where  it  could  and  lifting  itself  to  the  summit. 

When  they  had  climbed  the  long  hills,  they  rode  along 
the  levels  at  a  swinging  trot,  and  on  the  frequent  inclines 
dropped  the  rein  upon  their  horses'  necks  and  let  them 
take  what  gait  they  would.  As  they  came  from  time  to 
time  upon  a  clearing,  they  caught  dissolving  views  of  the 
fertile  valley  below,  at  which  Constance  refused  to  look, 
keeping  the  sensation  untasted  until  it  could  be  known 
in  its  entirety.  The  fresh  light  of  the  sun,  not  yet  five 
hours  old,  fell  softly  on  the  tree-tops,  and  the  lower 
branches  made  wide  nets  to  take  it  on  their  various 
greens.  It  was  prettiest  where  the  saplings  and  succulent 
young  growths  grew  so  dense  that  the  brightness  diffi 
cultly  sifted  through  the  boughs — by  the  maples  and 
chestnuts  only  knew  what  indirections.  The  wood 
peckers  were  beating  their  reveille,  and  this,  with  the 
hum  of  the  bees,  the  chattering  of  orioles  and  the  steady 
hoof-falls  were  often  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  still 
ness  as  they  stooped  under  a  wild  grapevine,  or  con 
tented  their  eyes  with  the  graces  which  the  sunshine 
wrought  in  the  woods. 

March  told  Constance  as  they  rode  of  the  constitution 
of  Gerrit  and  his  hopes  for  its  success.  He  said  that  it 
was  not  a  commune  except  in  the  best  sense,  that  is, 
that  every  man  had  a  common  interest  although  prop 
erty  was  separate. 

"  Our  aim  is  modest  enough.  We  do  not  hope  to 
revolutionize  the  world  ;  we  do  not  think  this  the  only 
way,  but  only  one  convenient  way,  or  an  experiment 


198  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

toward  it,  and  so  we  don't  compassionate  the  remainder 
of  mankind,  nor  attempt  to  proselyte  them.  There  are 
a  thousand  needs,  and  we  are  groping  toward  an  answer 
to  only  one  of  them.  Bringing  these  people  across  the 
water  and  placing  them  here — I  am  thinking  of  the  farm 
ers  and  farm  laborers,  who  are  my  chief  interest — is 
merely  cutting  a  path  for  them.  They  are  together, 
because  it  was  thought  that  our  end  was  more  easily 
attained  by  that  method  than  by  scattering  them.  They 
are  being  given  a  little  guiding  hand  in  entering  the 
path,  but  further  than,  that  nothing  will  be  done  to  assist 
them.  It  is  simply  offering  them  an  opportunity.  A 
plot  of  ground  is  assigned  to  them  ;  they  build  their 
houses  themselves  out  of  logs,  and  they  pay  for .  their 
land  by  yearly  installments  out  the  profits  of  their  crops. 
The  association  will  buy  it  back  if  they  should  ever  wish 
to  leave  ;  or,  if  they  remain,  they  can  buy  out  the  entire 
settlement  if  they  can  find  the  money." 

"  Some  one  tells  me  that  the  people  in  Quinnimont 
have  all  kinds  of  fancies  about  your  object.  None  of 
them  are  like  that." 

"  No  ;  they  imagine  that  we  mean  to  do  away  with 
money  and  bring  back  barter,  and  to  force  all  farmers  to 
live  in  communities  by  bringing  down  the  prices  of  things 
through  co-operation." 

The  view  from  the  summit  included  both  valleys. 
That  from  which  they  had  come  was  the  more  cultivated, 
but  the  vale  below,  in  which  March  pointed  out  the  raw, 
half-built  houses  of  Gerrit,  seemed  quite  as  fertile. 
Constance  glanced  over  the  prospect,  which  was  free  to 
the  horizon  on  all  sides.  The  mountains  made  a  perfect 
circle,  and  looked  down  from  every  quarter  upon  the 
smiling  plains,  which  the  gnomes  that  dwell  in  volcanoes 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  199 

had  forborne  to  upheave  when  the  geology  of  this  region 
was  enacting  and  the  hills  were  lifted  to  the  society  of 
the  clouds. 

Constance  imagined  the  farm-dotted  landscape  a  chess 
board.  The  square,  ploughed  fields  were  the  black  spots 
and  the  green  meadows  did  for  the  others.  She  made 
the  stone  houses  castles,  and  the  ordinary  houses  went 
for  pawns,  the  oaks  and  other  portly  trees  for  bishops. 
When  she  saw  a  horse  she  knighted  it.  The  rare 
orchards  planted  in  regular  rows  she  liked  to  fancy 
acrostics,  and  to  read  them  up  and  down  and  across. 

There  were  several  new  houses  completed  at  Gerrit, 
besides  the  fine  old  mansion  of  the  revolutionary  period, 
which  had  been  the  residence  of  former  owners.  The 
sound  of  hammering  filled  the  air,  and  a  host  of  men 
were  hurrying  about  in  their  shirt  sleeves.  Some  of  the 
women  were  washing  in  front  of  their  embryonic  homes, 
and  the  cheerful  odors  of  many  preparing  dinners  made 
their  way  to  the  nostrils  through  the  apertures  which  were 
one  day  to  be  covered4with  roofs,  as  well  as  through  the 
windows. 

While  he  was  yet  in  the  saddle  March  was  surrounded 
by  a  numerous  group  of  the  colonists.  One  of  them 
announced  that  certain  of  the  cows  had  broken  pasture  ; 
another  said  that  the  corn  which  they  had  bought  upon 
their  arrival  ready  planted  upon  one  of  their  fields,  had 
been  touched  by  frost.  A  third  wanted  instructions 
about  shingles,  and  another  offered  the  information  that 
Jem  Carver  had  not  been  seen  since  the  night  before. 

"  Drunk,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  March. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  doubt  he  is." 

"  Send  him  to  me  when  he  comes  back." 

With  the  other  embarrassments   he  dealt   promptly, 


200  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

giving  rapid  orders  as  he  alighted  and  helped  his  guests 
to  do  the  same. 

Constance  asked  that  she  might  be  allowed  to  make 
acquaintance  with  the  women  for  herself. 

"  I  don't  want  them  to  feel  that  I  am  a  visitor,"  she 
said. 

March  assented  with  a  smile  of  intelligence,  and  she 
gathered  up  her  riding-skirt  and  walked  swiftly  over  to 
the  first  woman  she  saw.  She  was  washing,  and  took 
one  of  her  hands  out  of  the  tub  to  smooth  an  obstinate 
strand  of  hair,  while  she  courtesied  with  respectful 
wonder.  Constance  had  taken  off  her  glove  and  bravely 
shook  her  hand.  She  had  gained  experience  during  the 
last  half  year,  and,  by  one  of  the  womanly  intuitions,  had 
found  the  common  ground  upon  which  alone  the  ignorant 
and  distressed  are  successfully  met.  She  neither  con 
descended  to  them  nor  pitied  them.  So  far  as  she  sym 
pathized  with  them  she  made  it  seem  the  natural 
sympathy  of  one  woman  for  another,  and  she  sur 
rounded  it  all  with  a  dignity  \yhich  asked  no  more 
than  it  gave,  and  which  commonly  won  their  instant  and 
faithful  respect.  Her  charity,  however  mistaken  or  in 
effective  it  may  have  been,  at  least  did  not  wear  its  em 
broidered  purse  at  its  waist,  nor  carry  its  ointment  as  a 
badge  and  its  lint  as  a  flag.  It  was  perfectly  unobtrusive, 
and  its  methods  were  certainly  eminently  vindicated  in 
the  case  of  this  woman,  from  whom  she  had  in  ten 
minutes  the  story  of  all  her  troubles  and  wants. 

The  party  went  about  the  inchoate  settlement  under 
the  guidance  of  March,  and  Mr.  Echols  kept  his  glasses 
to  his  eyes  and  made  his  observations. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  keep  up  my  character  as  a 
Southerner,  Mr.  March,  by  telling  you  that  shingles  are 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  201 

a  great  error.  I  would  if  I  could  with  any  sort  of  con 
science.  It's  the  lingering  Connecticut  in  me.  Thatch, 
you  know — thatch  is  the  proper  thing.  Durable  ?  No, 
it  isn't,  and  you  would  have  to  wait  until  next  summer 
to  cut  your  straw.  But  then .  Open  roofs  are  incon 
venient  ?  Certainly.  But  custom — custom,  you  see,  has 
nothing  to  do  with  cold  weather." 

March  said  that  he  intended  to  clear  the  forest  from 
the  mountain  slopes  and  cultivate  them.  Mr.  Echols 
asked  if  he  had  determined  what  he  would  plant  upon 
them,  and  he  owned  that  he  had  not. 

"  You  haven't  thought  of  grapes — grapes  and  peaches  ? 
Now,  there's  southern  France — France  and  Italy.  You 
know  where  they  plant  their  vineyards  ?  Southern 
exposure,  good  slope,  plenty  of  sun,  that  sort  of  thing. 
When  I  tell  our  people  that  about  here  they  hint  that  I'm 
not  a  farmer.  In  other  words,  I  don't  know  beans.  But 
grapes — I  fancy  I  know  grapes  ;  and  I'm  glad  to  find  an 
unprejudiced  subject.  Try  the  experiment,  Mr.  March." 

He  said  many  more  things  in  his  shrewd,  smiling  way 
as  they  walked  about. 

Mrs.  Echols  joined  Constance  when  they  encountered 
her,  and  went  about  with  her  for  a  time,  but  presently 
returned  to  the  party  which  March  was  leading  back  to 
his  own  residence. 

This  ancient  dwelling  was  decorated  with  a  piazza,  like 
enough  Mr.  Echols's  to  have  been  the  product  of  the  same 
mould,  and  when  he  had  seen  his  visitors  seated  upon  it, 
March  left  them  in  the  competent  care  of  Lincoln  and 
went  to  find  Constance.  He  met  her  coming  out  of  one 
of  the  cottages. 

"  I  hope  you  have  been  making  excuses  for  us,"  he 
said. 


202  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  There  is  not  so  much  need  as  I  fancied,"  returned 
she,  "but  there  are  ever  so  many  things  to  be  done. 
You  can't  think." 

"  I've  heard,"  he  said,  smiling. 

They  walked  slowly  toward  the  house. 

"  Not  the  unabridged  version,"  she  answered,  con 
fidently.  "  They  wouldn't  tell  it  all  to  a  man,  even  if 
they  could  remember  it.  I  can't  recall  everything  myself 
even  now.  There  is  so  much — no  man  could  have  an 
idea.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  come  again  and  make  a  list 
of  the  things  they  have.  That  would  be  quite  simple." 

"  Come  again,  anyway,"  he  said. 

"  Never  fear  !  I  shall  come  often  enough.  I  am  greatly 
interested." 

"  You  can  not  come  too  often,"  said  March,  earnestly. 

"  If  I  can  do  any  good.     No." 

"  I  shall  like  to  have  you  come,  you  know,  whether  you 
do  our  people  here  good  or  not,"  he  said,  with  a  novel 
feeling  thrilling  him  strangely.  "  Your  coming  will  always 
do  me  good." 

His  voice  took  an  altogether  new  tone.  He  found 
himself  unable  to  control  it.  Their  talk  had  always  been 
singularly  free  from  the  personal  cast,  and  these  words 
were  rich  in  implication.  A  fleeting  expression  halted 
abruptly  on  her  face,  and  she  glanced  quickly  toward 
him.  Then  she  said  : 

"  I  suppose  you  know,  Mr.  March,  that  those  poor 
women  have  no  washboards." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

MARCH  stood  upon  the  portico  and  thoughtfully 
watched  them  ride  away.  Then  he  came  to  where  Lin 
coln  was  sitting  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair  beside 
him.  He  began  to  beat  the  sides  of  it  nervously  with 
his  hands. 

"  What  is  it,  March  ?  "  asked  Lincoln. 

"  It's  a  long  story." 

"  That  is  what  you  said  yesterday  when  I  asked  about 
Miss  Van  Cleef's  transgression.  You  remember  you 
were  speaking  of  something  of  the  sort." 

"  Well,  they  are  the  same  thing." 

Lincoln  pulled  musingly  at  his  upper  lip  with  his 
fingers,  and  looked  at  his  companion. 

"  You  give  me  credit  for  a  great  deal  of  penetration," 
he  said. 

"  How's  that  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  understand.     I  don't." 

March  smiled. 

"  I  had  no  idea  you  understood.     I  don't  myself." 

"  Well,  then,  I  don't  even  understand  what  you  are 
trying  to  understand." 

"You  know  that  you  will.  You  believe  that  I  can 
have  no  reason  for  refusing  to  tell  you  anything  worth 
while." 

His  face  was  full  of  the  friendship  to  which  they  did 
not  give  clearer  expression. 


204  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  My  dear  fellow  !  "  exclaimed  Lincoln,  impulsively,  as 
he  grasped  his  hand. 

March  told  him  the  story  of  his  relation  with  Con 
stance.  An  irresistible  need  was  upon  him  to  set  it  in  a 
clear  light  before  himself.  He  wished  to  understand, 
if  he  could,  the  monstrous  blindness  which  had  withheld 
from  him  until  now  the  perception  that  he  loved  her. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  as  he  finished,  "  what  a  cheap 
position  it  leaves  upon  my  hands." 

"  You  couldn't  have  known." 

"  No  ;  but  I  needn't  have  been  an  ass." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  is." 

"It was  gratuitous  to  tell  her,  that  evening  in  the 
cemetery,  that  I  didn't  care  for  her." 

"  Well,  you  didn't.  You  wouldn't  have  had  yourself 
kneeling  and  calling  the  gods  to  witness,  would  you  ?  " 

"  I  might  have  said  less.  I  need  not  have  insisted  on 
my  indifference." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  are  trying  to  convince  me  that 
you  made  it  seem  like  conferring  a  favor.  You  must 
remember  I  didn't  meet  you  yesterday." 

"  Don't,  don't,  Lincoln  !  Your  friendly  imagination 
makes  it  worse.  That  is  just  what  I  did." 

"  Oh,  come  now  !  " 

"  And  as  if  that  wasn't  bad  enough,  I've  no  doubt  I 
showed  her  that  I  felt  it  was  the  gentlemanly  thing." 

"  Well,  it  was,  and  that  is  where  you  have  got  to  take 
your  stand." 

"  It  was  unnecessary  to  let  her  see  what  prompted  me, 
however  you  dress  up  the  motive  itself.  I  suppose  you 
admit  that." 

"  See  here,  March,  I  don't  admit  anything.  I  wasn't 
there  and  I  don't  know  what  you  said,  but  I  am  as  clear 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  205 

as  though  I  had  taken  it  down  in  shorthand  that  you  said 
nothing  ungentlemanly,  or  that  you  ought  to  be  repent 
ing  of." 

"  Said  !  It  was  my  manner  !  She  must  have  thought 
me  a  brute." 

"  I've  no  doubt  she  did,"  returned  Lincoln,  with 
unction,  "  and  that  is  the  reason  she  has  treated  you  with 
such  uncommon  consideration  ever  since.  She  likes 
the  race." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Lincoln  ?  Tell  me  ;  has  it  seemed 
so  to  you  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?     I  don't  think  she  dislikes  you." 

March  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  portico  with 
nervous  strides.  He  paused  suddenly  before  Lincoln. 

"  It's  a  coxcomb's  fancy,  but  I  really  believe  I  am  not 
indifferent  to  her.  She  lets  me  do  things  ;  she  seems 
willing  I  should  be  with  her." 

"  Well,  what  more  do  you  want  ?  You  don't  expect 
a  girl  like  that  to  wear  her  heart  on  her  sleeve." 

"  No,  no,  that's  true.  I  should  never  know  any  more 
than  negatively  from  her  manner  if  I  went  on  until 
doomsday.  She  isn't  a  girl  who  keeps  her  mental  doors 
open.  That  is  what  I  admired  in  her  from  the  first." 

"Yes,"  said  Lincoln,  kindly. 

He  had  always  felt  that  it  was  one  of  the  offices  of 
friendship  to  listen  patiently  to  the  lover's  rhapsodies  of 
one's  friends. 

"  And  if,  as  you  seem  to  think,  she  has  forgiven  that 
cruel  affront  to  all  her  maiden  pride,  it  is  only  the  merci 
fulness  that  I  have  always  felt  in  her." 

"  I  didn't  say  she  forgave  it.  That  isn't  the  word. 
She  didn't  believe  you." 

"  Lincoln  ! " 


206  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT, 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it.  A  girl  with  her  intuitions,  with  her 
imagination,  could  not  have  avoided  seeing  what  you 
were  able  to  blind  yourself  to.  It's  an  extremely  dull 
woman  who  doesn't  know  when  a  man  is  in  love  with  her, 
and  I  hope  you  don't  think  her  one  of  the  exceptions." 

"  Lincoln,  I  must  tell  you  that  you  go  a  great  ways.  I 
didn't  say " 

"  I  know  you  didn't,  but  you  won't  tell  me  that  it 
wasn't  so." 

<l  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Lincoln.  I  have  been  deceiving 
myself,  of  course,  in  the  ingenious  lover's  fashion.  I  was 
just  as  much  in  love  with  her  when  I  left  her  in  Judea 
as  I  am  now,  only  I  called  it  by  another  name.  I  pre 
tended  to  myself  that  I  was  interested  in  her  curious  situ 
ation,  in  her  character,  in  her  difficulties  with  the  Church, 
all  that.  Dolt  that  I  was  !  It  literally  needed  another 
sight  of  her  to  put  that  poor  nonsense  to  flight.  But  I 
can't  tell  when  it  began.  You  can't  date  passion,  Lincoln. 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  say  whether  I  was  in  love  with 
her  or  not  when  I  posed  for  indifference  that  evening  in 
the  cemetery  and  made  her  listen  to  my  condescending 
propositions.  How  can  a  man  tell  when  such  a  feeling 
rises  in  him  ? " 

"  He  can't ;  but,  as  I  say,  a  woman  can." 

"You  don't  know  her.  Such  unconsciousness,  such 
modesty " 

"  Oh,  dear,  don't  fancy  I  don't  know  all  that.  Of 
course,  I  only  became  acquainted  with  her  infinite  deli 
cacy  yesterday,  while  you  have  had  the  advantage  of  a 
life's  intimacy,  but  I  thought  I  had  an  idea  or  two  about 
her." 

"  I've  no  doubt  you  have,  but  you  use  your  imagina 
tion." 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEA  T.  207 

"  My  dear  March,  where  is  yours  ?  I  didn't  say  that 
she  announced  it  to  herself ;  she  didn't  put  it  on  her 
bulletin  board.  But  you  are  ready  to  believe  that  she 
might  display  as  much  ingenuity  as  you  in  cheating  her 
self.  Your  fancy  is  probably  not  so  dull  that  you  are 
unable  to  think  of  her  as  using  her  sense  of  your  love  as 
an  armor  to  her  pride,  quite  unconsciously." 

"  And  you  suppose  her  not  to  have  been  aware  of  her 
knowledge  ?  Doesn't  that  strike  you  as  a  little  bit  too 
metaphysical  ? " 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  one  of  the  simplest  things 
in  life,  and  when  you  ask  her,  I  think  she  will  tell 
you  so." 

"  When  I  ask  her  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  suppose  you  are  going  to 
offer  yourself." 

March  took  another  turn  upon  the  portico.  He  came 
back  with  his  hands  thrust  gloomily  in  his  pockets. 

"  You  must  know  that  I  can't." 

"  Oh,  see  here  !  "  cried  Lincoln,  rising. 

"  You  don't  want  it  explained  to  you,  I  trust  ? " 

"  Pshaw  !    March,   you   can't   mean !    Oh  !    look 

here  !  "  deprecated  the  young  man. 

"  You  haven't  been  thinking  that  I  would  ?  " 

Lincoln  stared  at  him.  He  put  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Yes,  I  have.  It  never  occurred  to  me.  I  thought,  of 
course " 

His  protest  died  upon  his  lips  :  he  could  not  find  the 
abundant  arguments  which  a  moment  before  seemed  to 
crowd  about  him. 

"  You  see,  Lincoln,  even  you  can't  find  a  decent  de 
fence  for  it." 
14 


208  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  who  is  doing  the  metaphysical 
now,"  he  said,  sitting  down,  doggedly. 

He  put  one  of  his  well-dressed  legs  upon  the  other 
and  regarded  it  with  fixed  disapproval. 

"  Look  at  it  fairly,  Lincoln.  How  can  I  tell  her  that 
I  was  mistaken,  that  once  she  seemed  scarcely  worthy  to 
occupy  the  exalted  position  of  Owen  March's  wife,  but 
that  I  have  thought  better  of  it,  and  now  see  in  her  some 
virtues — formerly  overlooked — which  entirely  qualify 
her?  How  can  I  tell  her  that?  But  I  needn't  urge  it." 

"  No,  you  needn't,"  admitted  Lincoln,  "  though  you 
overstate  it.  I'm  not  blind,  and  I  understand  how  you 
feel.  Your  sentiments  are  perfectly  proper  ;  you  could 
not  feel  less.  But  this  is  one  of  the  cases — they're  very 
rare — in  which  you  ought  to  sacrifice  your  proper  senti 
ments.  There  is  something  higher  concerned.  You've 
no  right  to  trifle  with  it,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Don't  put  temptation  in  my  way,  Lincoln.  My  inclin 
ation  is  strong  enough." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  and  you  may  as  well  yield  to  it.  You 
don't  seem  to  think  of  her." 

"  Excuse  me.  I  had  supposed  myself  to  be  think 
ing  only  of  her." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  be  frank  ? " 

"  Surely." 

"  Then  I  should  say  that  your  personal  pride  was  at 
least  as  much  involved  as  your  consideration  for  her  feel 
ing." 

"  You  may  be  right,  Lincoln,"  owned  March,  gloomily. 
"  There  doesn't  seem  much  chance  of  my  coming  out  of 
the  thing  as  a  gentleman,  in  any  event." 

"  Oh,  dear  me  ;  yes,  there  is.  But  there  are  certainly 
several  opportunities  for  mistakes.  I  think  you  will 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  209 

make  one  if  you  don't  take  the  measures  of  her  feelings 
on  both  sides." 

"  Leave  me  a  shred  or  two  of  self-respect.  Don't  ask 
me  to  presume  that  she  is  in  love  with  me." 

"  You  might  try  for  her  vague  sense  of  it,"  smiled  Lin 
coln,  who  was  always  as  ready  to  laugh  at  himself  as  at 
others.  Then  after  a  pause  :  "  The  fact  is,  it  is  awkward. 
Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  blinking  that.  But  you  have 
still  the  right  to  hear  her  decision  from  her  own  lips. 
That  is  every  man's  due,  and  you  certainly  haven't  for 
feited  it.  You  would  be  no  worse  off  if  she  refused  you 
than  you  are  now." 

"  It  would  confirm  the  awkwardness  incurably.  You 
seem  to  forget  that.  To  offer  myself  in  the  circum 
stances  is  bad  enough,  but  to  offer  and  be  refused  would 
be  killing." 

"  Use  your  fancy  hopefully.     Suppose  she  accepts  ? " 

"  I  can't  suppose  it." 

"  Your  modesty  is  absurd." 

"Oh,  don't  adorn  me  with  spurious  virtues." 

"  I  don't,  but  I  can't  understand  your  distrust." 

March  smiled  sadly. 

"You  can  understand  there  being  another  man." 

"  No,  not  in  that  village,"  said  Lincoln  ;  but  he  leaned 
forward  a  little,  interestedly,  as  March  sat  down  beside 
him.  "  Don't  cheapen  her.  She  would  not  concern  her 
self  about  anything  less  than  the  best." 

"  He  is  the  best.  That  is  my  trouble.  He  has  all  the 
virtues." 

"  But  does  she  love  them  ? " 

March  studied  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  can  only  say  that  for  three  years 
they  were  constantly  shown  her.  I  don't  see  how  she 


210  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

could  fail  to  be  attracted  by  them,  backed  by  his  evident 
passion.  They  are  charming  virtues  and  he  is  an  excel 
lent  man.  In  the  circumstances,  if  she  does  not  love 
them  and  him,  she  ought  to." 

"  Ah,  then,  you  needn't  distress  yourself.  She  doesn't 
— being  a  woman.  I  have  no  doubt  she  has  done  the 
unexpected  thing  and  fallen  in  love  with  your  vices." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  I  hope  I  shall  be  strong  enough  not 
to  give  her  the  opportunity  of  telling  me  so." 

"I  don't,"  returned  Lincoln,  stoutly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ON  the  second  day  following,  Constance  drove  her 
aunt  over  to  Gerrit  in  the  pony  carriage.  When  they 
had  alighted  in  the  single,  noisy  street  of  the  settlement 
she  lifted  the  cushion  from  the  seat  and  loaded  the  man 
who  came  for  the  horse  with  bundles  drawn  from  a 
mysterious  receptacle  beneath.  March  hearing  the 
brisk  rumble  of  her  wheels  came  out.  He  brought  up 
some  of  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  settlement  and 
introduced  them  to  her.  She  remembered  afterward 
that  she  had  met  a  tall  Mr.  Elden,  a  particularly  ruddy 
Mr.  Borough,  a  Mr.  Marvin  with  an  illuminating  smile, 
and  a  very  young  Mr.  Featherstonaugh  who  asked  her  how 
Quinnimont  society  ranked.  Among  these  polite  fellows 
there  were  two  sons  of  earls  and  the  sixth  son  of  a  duke, 
who  had  accompanied  the  colonists  in  search  rather  of 
adventure  than  of  gold. 

Several  who  had  been  made  known  to  her  on  her 
previous  visit  came  up  and  spoke  to  her  smilingly.  But 
the  larger  part  of  these  young  men  had  been  engaged 
in  hunting  two  days  before,  and  she  saw  them  now  for 
the  first  time.  Mr.  Marvin  wished  to  know  if  she  was 
fond  of  hunting,  and  was  decorously  appalled  when  she 
said  she  knew  nothing  about  it.  He  assured  her  that 
she  ought  by  all  means  to  learn.  They  did  a  great 
deal  of  it  at  Gerrit.  The  duke's  son  walked  with  her 
aunt  as  they  went  among  the  cottages.  Mrs.  Echols 


212  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

asked  March  if  he  had  seen  the  plan  for  the  tenement 
cottages  in  the  last  issue  of  the  Architect's  Journal. 

"  Mr.  Echols  takes  it,"  she  explained.  "  He  fancies 
himself  interested  in  architecture,  you  know." 

March  said  he  had  observed  it  and  found  it  sugges 
tive.  The  paper  was  taken  for  their  reading-room,  he 
added. 

"  Have  you  a  reading-room  ?  "  asked  Constance.  "  We 
didn't  see  it." 

4<  We  have  several  things  that  you  have  yet  to  see. 
There  are  redeeming  features  about  the  place,  though 
we  are  short  of  washboards,"  exclaimed  March. 

This  was  said  from  Mrs.  Echols's  side. 

He  had  obviously  not  sought  Constance's  company, 
and  indeed  seemed  willing  to  defend  himself  from  being 
left  to  talk  with  her  alone. 

March  had  been  grappling  with  his  feeling  since  his 
talk  with  Lincoln,  but  it  did  not  appear  to  go  down 
readily  before  his  assault.  He  constantly  said  to  him 
self  that  it  was  most  unpleasant  either  way.  This  dis 
tressing  balance  of  disagreeable  events  has  not  been 
commonly  found  a  simplification  of  difficulties.  It 
resulted  with  March  in  giving  him  a  great  deal  to  think 
of.  The  ladies  did  not  remain  long  after  they  had  dis 
tributed  the  comforting  articles  which  they  had  brought 
with  them,  but  Constance  carried  away  a  faint  sense  of 
his  avoidance  of  her.  This  was  confirmed  upon  her 
next  charitable  visit  to  Gerrit,  and  as  March  did  not 
call,  a  vague  wonder  began  to  stir  in  her. 

March  was  cruelly  tortured,  and  he  got  no  consolation 
from  Lincoln.  He  had  been  singularly  free  from  the 
trivial  affairs  of  boyhood  and  his  passion  had  an  over 
mastering  force.  It  was  perfectly  plain  that  he  must 


A   VIC  TO  RIO  US  DEFEA  T.  213 

abandon  the  colony  if  he  did  not  wish  to  see  her.  She 
came  with  assiduous  regularity,  and  he  could  only  fancy 
the  pleasure  he  might  find  in  these  visits  if  he  could  feel 
at  liberty  to  meet  her  as  another  man  might. 

Lincoln's  friendship  was  offered  with  a  discrimination 
for  which  he  felt  grateful.  It  was  a  rich  opportunity  for 
the  friendly  offices,  but  it  might  easily  have  been  made 
too  much  of.  Lincoln  went  just  far  enough,  and  his 
unfaltering  adherence  to  his  original  view  of  the  situation 
was  a  grateful  tower  of  strength  in  the  midst  of  March's 
uncertainty. 

Constance  drove  home  one  day  with  her  aunt,  espe 
cially  disturbed  by  his  manner.  She  had  fancied  at^  first 
that  she  deceived  herself,  and  the  impalpability  of  the 
change  certainly  lent  it  a  dubious  air.  But  she  was 
certain  now  that  she  saw  a  change  in  his  manner  toward 
her.  The  change  implied  no  reproach.  Of  that  much 
she  was  certain.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  full  of  an 
almost  exaggerated,  if  distant  respect.  Its  constant  pre 
sumption  upon  her  understanding,  its  manly,  restrained 
pleading  for  a  suspension  of  judgment,  appealed  with  a 
kind  of  subtle  flattery  to  all  her  womanly  senses,  and 
perhaps  this  was  the  reason  that  she  could  find  no  resent 
ment  for  it  in  her  heart. 

The  sensitive  chords  of  pride  which  she  felt  ought  to 
be  stirred  seemed  to  have  forgotten  their  office,  and  she 
tried  to  believe  that  they  had  been  disused  so  long  by  her 
systematic  humbling  of  herself  that  a  minor  temptation 
could  not  set  them  vibrating.  But  she  could  not  cajole 
herself  so  far.  She  knew  that  slighter  matters  had 
roused  the  old  sentiment,  despite  the  best  that  her  newly- 
won  strength  could  do,  and  the  certainty  that  if  it  were 
some  other  than  March  she  would  find  the  appropriate 


214  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

feeling  awake  without  her  summons,  broke  down  this 
pleasing  fancy. 

"  Aunt,  have  you  noticed  a  change  in  Mr.  March's 
manner  recently  ? "  she  asked,  suddenly,  as  they 
drove. 

Mrs.  Echols  was  silent  for  a  moment,  apparently 
piecing  her  recollections  together. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  slowly,  at  length. 
"  Have  you  ? " 

"  I  can't  tell.     I  ask  you." 

"  Why,  I  remember " 

"Yes?" 

"  \  remember  very  little,  dear,  but  I  seem  to  feel  some 
thing  now  that  you  speak  of  it." 

Constance  touched  her  whip  thoughtfully  to  the  pony's 
flank. 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  makes  it  hard.  One  can't  say 
what  it  is,  or  even  certainly  that  it  is  at  all,  but  it's 
impossible  not  to  feel  it." 

Mrs.  Echols  looked  musingly  at  the  pony's  even, 
nervous  little  motions. 

"  And  does  it  disturb  you  ?  "  she  asked,  kindly. 

Constance  smiled. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  ought  ?  " 

"  That  depends "  Mrs.  Echols  hesitated  an 

instant. 

Constance  looked  at  her  questioningly. 

"  Upon  whether  I  like  Mr.  March,  were  you  going  to 
say?  Certainly  I  do — greatly.  He  has  been  very 
kind.  He  was  fond  of  father,  I  think,  and  at  the  time 
of  my  trouble  he  did  everything.  He  rode  to  Philadel 
phia — did  I  tell  you  ? — through  a  terrible  storm  for  Dr. 
Fleet,  and  then  afterward  made  all  the  dreadful  arrange- 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  215 

ments  and  went  away  without  a  word.  Yes,  I  have 
every  reason  to  like  Mr.  March." 

It  was  a  cold,  dreary  day,  with  the  prophetic  tang  of 
Winter  in  the  air.  The  leaves  took  the  wind  shiveringly 
upon  their  grey  backs,  and  the  stacks  of  corn,  cut, 
and  standing  in  soldierly  ranks,  seemed  glad  to  hug  their 
comrades  close  for  warmth. 

Constance  caught  her  pelisse  about  her  as  a  colder 
breeze  sprang  upon  them  from  the  depths  of  the  wood, 
and  pulled  the  robe  over  her  aunt  as  that  lady  said, 

"  I  understand,  and  it  was  very  good  of  him.  But  I 
was  not  going  to  ask  you  about  your  feeling  toward  him. 
I  wanted  you  to  ask  yourself  whether  you  had  given  him 
cause  for  offence." 

"  Offence  !     Oh,  my  dear  aunt,  there  is  none  !  " 

Constance  reflected  a  moment ;  then  she  gave  utter 
ance  to  a  thought  which  was  that  moment  born  in  her, 
though  she  spoke  it  as  if  it  were  immemorially  familiar. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  he  is  withholding  himself  from 
some  generous  idea  that  it  is  the  part  of  delicacy  not  to 
approach  me  ? " 

Mrs.  Echols  looked  at  her  rather  blankly,  and  tucked 
the  robe  about  her  matronly  form  before  she  said, 

"  I'm  bound  to  say  that  I  don't,  but  I'm  willing  to 
believe  that  you  see,  my  dear  girl,  and  are  not  wrong — 
only  it  would  be  right  interesting  from  your  point  of  view 
to  understand  a  little  more  clearly.  Go  over  the  history 
of  your  acquaintance.  What  is  there  that  could  have 
brought  this  about  ?  Perhaps  you  will  think,  if  you  run 
through  it  carefully.  Tell  it  to  me,  dear,  if  it  will  help 
you." 

Constance  listened  to  this  kindly  logic  in  silence. 

"  Get  up,  Lady  !  "  she  admonished  her  pony,  and  gave 


2l6  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

her  an  urgent  little  tap.  "  It  would  take  a  long  time," 
she  said,  at  length.  "  Somehow  a  great  many  events  are 
associated  with  Mr.  March.  It  would  be  hard  to  give 
you  a  fair  idea  of  some  of  them,  and  one — ah  !  it's  too 
awful ! " 

"  Don't,  dear,  don't !  Forgive  me  !  I  didn't  know  I 
was  laying  old  sores  bare.  I  couldn't  let  you  tell  me 
now." 

Constance  kept  her  eyes  resolutely  fixed  on  the  road  in 
advance. 

"  But  if  you  thought  it  might  help  me  ? "  she  said, 
through  her  compressed  lips. 

Mrs.  Echols  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  for  answer, 
and  Constance  did  not  wait  for  other  invitation  to  tell 
her  story. 

"  And  then  what  do  you  suppose  he  did  ?  "  exclaimed 
she,  when  she  had  told  of  Mr.  Keator's  warning,  of  her 
obstinacy,  which  she  did  not  attempt  to  palliate  in  any 
way,  and  of  the  never-to-be-forgotten  scene  in  the 
church. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  was  Mrs.  Echols's  expectant 
answer. 

"  You  would  scarcely  imagine.  It  was  not  like  what 
every  other  man  would  do,  and  yet  as  he  did  it  you  could 
not  conceive  that  any  gentleman  would  do  anything  less. 
Fancy,  dear  aunt !  He  proposed  to  me  !  After  being 
scorned  and  upbraided  in  that  public  way,  after  having 
fallen  to  what  seemed  to  me  the  lowest  depths,  he  asked 
me  to  marry  him.  I  never  knew  anything  finer." 

"  What  did  you  say  ? " 

"  What  could  I  say  ?  I  couldn't  accept  him  very  well, 
could  I  ? " 

"  That  depends  upon  how  you  felt  toward  him." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  2l^ 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  rather  depended  upon  the 
feeling  which  prompted  him.  At  all  events,  I  had  no 
feeling  toward  him  to  inquire  into.  You  can  fancy  a 
man's  being  a  great  deal  to  one  and  nothing  to  one,  can't 
you,  aunt  ?  I'm  sure  you  can.  That  is  the  feeling,  or 
lack  of  feeling,  I  had  for  Mr.  March.  He  was  an  extremely 
agreeable  friend,  and  now  he  was  an  extremely  kind  one. 
I  had  never  thought  of  him  in  that  way." 

"  So  you  refused  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  and  my  belief  was  justified.  He  urged 
his  suit  as  eagerly  as  if  he  had  really  desired  his  success 
— for  the  moment  perhaps  he  did  wish  it.  It  was  very 
generous.  But  he  accepted  the  answer  quietly.  He 
had  simply  felt  that  it  was  the  gentlemanly  thing  to  do — 
that  was  it.  He  had  said  that  he  could  not  pretend  a 
passion." 

"  Did  he  say  that  ?  " 

"  Not  those  words.  He  said  that  he  was  not  in  love. 
Why  ?  Ah,  aunt,  you  didn't  fancy  that  he  was  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  But — why,  don't  you  see,  my 
child  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  Constance,  slowly  fixing  her  wander 
ing  eyes  on  Mrs.  Echols's  face. 

"  But  I  won't  say  it — or  rather  I  will,  but  another  time. 
I  shall  have  to  think.  You  will  be  patient  with  me  for  a 
little,  dear  ? " 

"  Patient !  "  cried  Constance,  impulsively.  "  Lock 
your  fancy  in  a  box  and  throw  it  into  the  Potomac,  aunt! 
I  shall  never  ask  you  !  " 

She  put  her  free  arm  about  her. 

Jacinth  was  absorbedly  poking  the  fire  as  they  walked 
in  upon  her  and  a  servant,  apparently  by  her  direction, 
was  fetching  a  monstrous  log. 


218  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  I  thought  I  would  have  it  warm  for  you,"  she  said,  as 
she  turned  to  nod  to  them  with  the  tongs  in  her  hand. 
"  Isn't  it  very  cold  out  ?  " 

Helen,  the  elder  of  the  two  younger  girls,  came  up  to 
Constance  before  she  could  draw  off  her  pelisse. 

"Oh,p/ease  open  this!"  she  begged,  holding  out  a 
long,  worn  official  paper  covered  with  erasures  and  direc 
tions,  and  bearing  a  number  of  English  stamps.  "  It 
came  this  morning  just  after  you  went,  and  it  has  taken 
heaps  of  patience  not  to  open  it.  Ethel  says  it  looks  as 
if  there  were  a  whole  romance  sealed  up  in  it.  Do  you 
see  where  they  have  crossed  your  father's  name  out  and 
written  yours,  and  then  it  has  gone  to  Quinnimont,  Ver 
mont,  instead  of  Maryland  ?  The  'Md.'  isn't  very  plain," 
she  went  on,  putting  her  finger  on  it  as  Constance  took 
the  packet ;  "  but  their  eyesight  must  have  been  mighty 
poor  to  have  sent  it  away  up  to  Vermont.  It's  the  title 
deeds  to  some  great  estate  in  England,  Cousin  Constance  ; 
that's  what  it  is.  I  wonder  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  And 
you  have  been  kept  out  of  it  by  some  wicked  man  who 
has  repented  on  his  death-bed  and  left  you  even  more 
than  your  share.  That  is  the  way  it  goes  in  the  story 
books." 

She  talked  very  rapidly,  the  words  jostling  and  leaping 
over  one  another  like  stones  tumbling  down  hill.  Her 
vivacious  manner  was  not  altogether  southern,  but  she 
had  her  mother's  rich  tone  and  pronunciation  and  a  large 
store  of  the  hearty  southern  idioms. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  began,  "  but  please  open  it,  Cousin 
Constance  !  "  she  begged.  "  It's  mighty  interesting." 

Constance  threw  her  pelisse  and  hat  upon  the  chair 
and  sat  down  before  the  fire.  Her  cheeks  were  glowing 
from  the  drive,  and  in  her  eyes  the  mild  excitement  of 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  219 

curiosity  shone  as  she  broke  the  seal  in  her  leisurely  man 
ner  with  her  penknife. 

She  gave  a  low  exclamation. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Echols,  gently  ;  but 
she  read  on. 

She  folded  up  the  papers  at  length.  Her  hands  fell 
into  her  lap,  and  for  a  moment  she  sat  musing.  Finally 
she  looked  up  and  said,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  aunt, 

"  You  know  father  amused  himself  by  writing  letters  to 
a  London  newspaper  ? " 

"  No,  dear " 

"  Yes,  after  we  went  to  Judea  he  needed  some  distract 
ing  occupation.  He  was  glad  to  get  back,  but  he  missed 
the  city,  too,  and  he  enjoyed  writing.  I  used  to  be  so 
glad  of  it,  and  this  letter  is  to  say  that  he  was  replaced 
before  his  death.  His  political  ideas  were  the  ideas  of 
his  generation.  He  often  said  that,  and  he  would  add,  in 
his  generous  way,  that  perhaps  it  was  time  he  gave  place 
to  new  blood.  But  to  think  it  had  happened  and  he 
never  knew  it  !  " 

"  Why,  how  was  that,  Cousin  Constance  ? "  asked 
Ethel. 

The  young  girl  had  drawn  a  cricket  to  her  side,  and, 
resting  her  elbows  upon  Constance's  lap,  was  looking 
eagerly  into  her  face. 

"  That  is  the  strangest  part  of  it.  You  see,  aunt,"  she 
said,  bending  forward  to  show  her  the  paper,  while  Ethel 
sat  upright  upon  her  cricket,  "  this  would  not  have 

reached  father  before "  She  brushed  her  eyes 

quickly.  "  It  was  mailed  too  late  even  if  it  had  come 
directly.  It  was  not  the  compassion  of  chance.  It  seems 
to  have  been  only  the  most  perfect  human  forbearance. 
It's  not  very  clear  to  me  yet.  I  ought  to  understand. 


220  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

After  a  while,  I  suppose,  I  shall.  But — ah,  that  must 
have  been  Mr.  March's  real  errand  !  "  she  exclaimed  to 
herself,  "  and  we  did  not  know." 

She  sat  meditating  for  a  moment,  and  they  all  waited 
with  a  kind  of  respect  for  her  thought. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Echols,  after  what 
seemed  a  long  time. 

"  Mr.  March  has  done  us  all  an  even  greater  kindness 
than  I  knew." 

"  Do  you  mean ?  " 

"  Yes,  aunt,"  returned  she,  with  decision.  "  These 
papers  make  that  clear."  She  ran  her  eyes  hastily  over 
one  of  them  again.  "  I  can't  doubt  it.  The  dates  show 
it.  When  Mr.  March  came  to  us  in  April  he  carried  with 
him  a  commission  for  the  place  which  father  held.  We 
can  only  imagine  how  he  avoided  assuming  it,  but  at 
least  he  made  no  motion  toward  it,  and  except  for  this 
we  should  not  have  known." 

"  He  must  have  resigned,"  suggested  Helen,  whose 
ears  had  not  been  closed.  "  Wasn't  it  splendid  of  him  !" 

"  And  he  never  said  a  word  !  "  exclaimed  Ethel, 
ardently. 

These  young  ladies  were  at  the  interesting  period  of 
life  in  which  a  hero  is  a  necessity.  March  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  serve  their  purpose  excellently. 

Constance  was  silent.  She  was  thinking  gratefully  of 
his  infinite  generosity. 

"  I  should  like  greatly  to  thank  him,"  she  said,  after  a 
time. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

SHE  had  an  opportunity  to  thank  him  on  the  morrow, 
for  he  came  over  to  Quinnimont  to  assist  in  preparing 
the  hall,  which  served  as  the  theatre  of  the  place,  for  a 
little  play  arranged  to  take  place  that  evening.  But  she 
did  not  see  him  when  she  reached  the  hall  ;  he  was 
engaged  behind  the  scenes  no  doubt.  And  she  found 
herself  glad. of  the  delay,  for  she  began  to  wonder  how 
she  should  approach  the  subject  uppermost  in  her 
thoughts. 

March  and  Lincoln  had  come  in  early  from  Gerrit 
with  several  of  the  laboring  colonists,  and  at  the  time  of 
Constance's  arrival,  March  was  engaged  with  one  of  the 
colonists  in  moving  some  scenes  under  the  direction  of 
Mrs.  Echols.  The  performance  was  to  be  for  the  benefit 
of  the  charitable  society  which  had  occupied  much  of 
Constance's  attention  during  her  stay  in  Quinnimont, 
and  she  naturally  found  much  to  do  on  this  morning  of 
the  event.  She  had  not  been  moved  to  offer  to  take  part 
in  the  comedietta  which  a  number  of  young  people 
slightly  known  to  her  had  been  engaged  in  rehearsing 
for  a  week  or  two.  She  had  doubted  her  talent  for  act 
ing,  and  besides,  had  just  begun  to  busy  herself  at  Ger 
rit  when  the  project  of  the  play  was  set  on  foot.  But  she 
was  much  interested  in  the  affair  as  likely  to  help  on  her 
charitable  work  in  Quinnimont  ;  and  went  about  now, 
helping  actively  where  she  could. 


222  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Lincoln  was  on  the  stage  assisting  in  the  decoration 
of  a  booth  necessary  in  the  play.  As  several  of  the 
charming  young  ladies  of  Quinnimont  were  also  engaged 
upon  this  work,  the  task  was  not  disagreeable  to  him. 
Constance  observed  him  amusedly,  balanced  on  a  high 
step-ladder  and  chatting  merrily  with  the  group  of 
feminine  assistants  below.  They  handed  him  tacks  and 
hammer  and  flowers  and  paper  as  he  needed  them,  and 
seemed  to  find  him  a  delightful  assistant.  Jacinth  sat  a 
little  apart  sewing  quietly  upon  the  long  breadths  of  a 
cambric  curtain  to  be  used  elsewhere  in  the  room,  and 
when  Lincoln  had  accomplished  his  labors  upon  the  step- 
ladder  he  came  down  and  sat  beside  her,  talking  while 
she  worked.  From  time  to  time  he  was  summoned  by 
the  nervous  little  band  of  workers  at  the  booth,  whose 
chief  difficulty  seemed  to  be  the  irremediable  vagrancy 
of  a  pair  of  highly  necessary  scissors  ;  but  he  always 
returned  to  Jacinth  when  he  had  supplied  their  demands. 

Constance  was  busy  in  the  hall  itself,  where  presently 
she  found  herself  in  need  of  a  large  silver  vase  which 
Mrs.  Bartlett  had  promised  to  bring  to  be  filled  with 
flowers.  It  was  to  crown  a  bit  of  decoration  which  Con 
stance  had  planned  to  clothe  a  corner  of  the  bare  hall. 
Mrs.  Bartlett  had  placed  her  vase  in  the  fly  gallery 
above  the  stage,  where  a  number  of  articles  had  been  left 
for  safe  keeping.  Constance  went  for  it  herself,  as  Mrs. 
Bartlett  could  not  leave  her  work.  She  climbed  the 
steep  stairs  leading  up  among  the  flies,  and  then  remem 
bered  that  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  not  said  on  which  side  of 
the  stage  she  had  left  the  vase.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  the  hiding-place  had  been  selected  a  little  too 
ingeniously. 

Wherever  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  placed  it,  apparently  it 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  223 

was  not  where  she  was,  and  she  walked  upon  the  bridge 
that  spanned  the  stage.  It  looked  fairly  secure  while  the 
gallery  floor  was  under  her,  but  when  she  found  herself 
out  upon  the  slender  way  with  nothing  beneath  but  the 
dusty,  painted  borders  and  the  lines  of  candles  before 
them,  she  felt  frightened  at  her  daring.  She  looked 
across  to  the  opposite  gallery  for  which  she  had  set  out. 
It  seemed  an  awful  distance.  She  glanced  down  at  the 
stage  and  drew  her  head  back  quickly  with  a  little  shiver. 
It  was  twenty  feet  beneath  her.  She  tried  to  rebuke  her 
fears,  to  reason  with  herself.  The  void  below  might  as 
well  have  been  fathomless.  She  tried  to  turn  and  retrace 
her  steps.  She  felt  a  wild  fear  taking  possession  of  her. 
Ordinarily  she  was  far  from  timid,  but  as  she  tried  to  turn 
on  the  narrow  space  with  no  rail  for  support,  she  could 
not  avoid  looking  below  and  an  unwilling  cry  escaped 
her.  She  remembered  afterward  how  clearly  she  had 
seen  every  thing — the  men  hammering  on  the  stage,  her 
aunt  filling  a  vase  with  golden  rod,  Mrs.  Bartlett  regard 
ing  the  decorations,  on  which  she  was  working,  with  arms 
akimbo,  Helen  and  Ethel  arranging  a  rug  on  the  stage — 
yellow  and  grey  and  blue — the  very  drooping  fringe  of 
tallow  about  the  candles  in  the  flies.  Then  some  one 
seemed  to  look  up  from  the  stage  and  perceive  her,  and 
March  came  bounding  up  the  stairs. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Miss  Van  Cleef,"  he  said,  and  started 
upon  the  bridge. 

"  No,  no,"  she  begged,  in  a  voice  which  she  tried  hard 
to  control  ;  "  it's  not  safe  !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  it  is,"  said  March,  with  a  reassuring 
smile  ;  but  his  face  was  pale. 

He  took  another  step. 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't !  Please  don't !  " 


224  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

11  Very  well,"  returned  he,  as  he  retired  to  the  gallery. 
"  Try  it  alone,"  he  said,  kindly,  as  he  stood  waiting  for 
her. 

"  I  can't.     I  think " 

"  Well  ? " 

"  I  think  I  could  do  it  now  if  you  won't  watch  me." 

March  promptly  turned  his  back.  He  waited  for  a  full 
minute.  There  was  no  sound.  She  was  still  hesi 
tating  as  he  looked  about,  and  without  speaking  he 
went  quickly  out  on  the  bridge,  and  taking  her  hand, 
while  he  moved  backward  himself,  drew  her  gently  but 
firmly  in.  She  sank  upon  a  theatrical  battered  gilt  throne 
which  had  been  stowed  in  a  corner  of  the  gallery,  and 
throwing  an  arm  over  the  back,  let  her  face  fall  upon  it. 
Her  closed  eyes  were  turned  from  March,  but  after  a 
moment  or  two  she  looked  up  with  a  weary  smile.  He 
was  regarding  her  anxiously. 

"  How  silly  !  "  she  breathed. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  It  seemed  to  me  very  natural. 
You  ought  not  to  have  attempted  it." 

"Of  course.  I  know.  But  Mrs.  Bartlett  put  her  vase 
here  and  I  came  to  look  for  it." 

"  Her  vase  ?  Isn't  this  an  odd  place  for  it  ? " 

"  No  ;  she  was  afraid  of  the  boys  who  are  running 
about  the  hall ;  and  then,  I  suppose,  she  thought  it 
might  be  stolen.  But  perhaps  she  has  hidden  it  a  little 
too  carefully.  I  don't  see  it.  Do  you  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it's  on  the  other  side.     Did  she  specify  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  ask.  I  didn't  know  there  were  two  sides 
when  I  started." 

"  But  there  is  a  stair  leading  up  to  the  opposite  gal 
lery.  It's  not  easy  to  understand  why  you  didn't  come 
down  and  take  that." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  225 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  if  you  are  acquainted  with  me.  It  was 
my  pride.  I  thought  I  could  do  it." 

"You  know  they  raise  and  lower  the  curtain  from  the 
other  gallery,  and  that  is  where  most  things  employed 
up  here  are  kept,"  said  March,  not  accepting  the  oppor 
tunity  to  discuss  her  foibles.  "  This  side  is  used  very 
little." 

"  I  didn't  know,"  said  Constance. 

"  Was  your  vase  a  large  silver  one  decorated  in  gold  ? 
I  think  I  saw  something  like  that  when  I  went  into  the 
opposite  gallery  for  Mrs.  Echols.  She  is  also  using  it 
for  a  store-room." 

Constance  said  that  he  had  probably  seen  the  object 
of  her  search,  and  he  went  quickly  across  the  bridge  and 
presently  returned  with  it. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  and  let  me  thank 
you  now  too  for  rescuing  me.  I've  scarcely  recovered 
from  my  fright  yet  and  I  had  forgotten.  How  did  you 
know  ?  " 

"  You  gave  a  little  cry,  you  remember,  and  I  was  just 
below  at  work  on  the  scenery." 

"  Were  you  ?  I  didn't  see  you.  Sit  down,  Mr.  March, 
if  you  can  find  a  seat.  I'm  not  half  ready  to  move  yet." 

She  looked  at  him  smilingly.  Her  amiability  was  hard 
to  bear.  He  turned  away  with  a  disturbed  face  to  find 
a  chair.  He  discovered  one  of  those  plain  wooden 
chairs,  painted  white,  which,  in  rural  theatres,  are  the 
property  man's  concession  to  the  classical  repertoire. 
One  of  the  legs  had  been  broken  half  way  up,  and  the 
other  three  had  been  sawed  to  correspond  with  this 
infirmity.  March  sat  down  with  his  hands  clinched  as 
if  he  were  restraining  himself. 

"  I  shan't  keep  you  long,  and  with  the  scenery  waiting 


226  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

I  shouldn't  venture  to  keep  you  at  all  for  a  purely  self 
ish  purpose  ;  but,  Mr.  March,  I've  found  you  out." 

She  enjoyed  his  startled  look. 

"  I've  tracked  one  of  your  secret,  underhand,  gener 
ous  acts  to  its  lair,"  she  went  on,  smilingly,  "  and  I  mean 
to  bring  it  out  into  the  light  of  day  and  make  it  pay  the 
penalty  of  concealment.  One  would  think  you  were 
ashamed  of  your  modest  virtues.  Oh,  Mr.  March,"  she 
cried,  changing  her  tone,  "  it  was  too  bad  of  you  never 
to  let  me  know  what  you  had  done  for  father  !  " 

March  flushed  a  little  and  looked  attentively  at  his 
outstretched  palm. 

"  I  was  glad  to  conceal  it,"  he  said.  "  It  wasn't  a 
thing  to  be  proud  of.  I  have  never  forgiven  myself  for 
accepting  the  place  originally.  My  only  excuse  is  that  I 
did  not  know  your  father's  age  and  his  attachment  for 
the  position." 

"  You  must  let  me  put  my  own  estimate  on  your 
goodness.  I  can  never  tell  you  how  much  I  feel  it.  It 
was  more  than  kind.  It  was  noble  ! "  Her  eyes  filled. 
"You  were  right  in  thinking  that  it  would  hurt  father  to 
lose  it.  Nothing  could  have  grieved  him  more.  Pardon 
me  if  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.  I  am  not  accus 
tomed  to  having  to  find  words  for  such  a  favor.  There 
are  none.  But  I  ask  you  to  believe  my  gratitude." 

She  put  out  her  hand  impulsively  and  March  took  it. 
Something  in  her  illumined  face,  its  frank  friendliness, 
its  generous  wishfulness  to  say  her  feeling,  affected  him 
indescribably.  He  saw  in  her  eager  eyes,  or  thought  he 
saw,  a  large  vision  in  which  his  doubts  and  perplexities 
and  questionings  of  the  past  fortnight  grew  ineffably 
small.  He  felt  that  he  had  discredited  her  in  not  trust 
ing  the  liberality  of  her  outlook — it  seemed  so  large  at 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  227 

the  moment.  It  could  not  avoid  making  some  account 
of  the  facts,  but  they  were  less  important  to  it,  he  was 
sure,  than  they  had  been  in  his  thought. 

Lincoln's  arguments  recurred  to  him  and  he  found  his 
capacity  and  will  to  resist  them  failing  from  him.  He 
felt  the  obligation  to  combat  them,  but  he  could  not 
compel  his  tutored  resolution  to  his  aid.  His  scrup 
ulously  woven  theories  about  her  and  their  relation 
seemed  crumbling  about  him  in  a  fatal  ruin,  and  for  the 
instant  he  was  recklessly  glad.  If  she  cared  for  him  she 
would  not  be  sorry  that  he  had  spoken,  and  if  she  did 
not,  her  generosity  would  see  less  than  he  did  in  his 
offence. 

He  continued  to  hold  her  hand  as  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  bending  toward  her, 

"  Don't  use  that  miserly  word  !  There  can  be  no  such 
thing  as  gratitude  between  us."  She  looked  up  startled. 
"  Do  you  think  that  the  poor  little  things  I  have  been 
able  to  do  have  been  done  to  win  your  gratitude  ?  It 
has  been  because  I  loved  you,  though  I  haven't  known  it." 

He  looked  into  her  face  with  a  glowing  tenderness 
before  which  her  eyes  drooped.  She  gently  withdrew 
her  hand. 

"  You  are  too  good  to  say  what  you  have  the  best 
right  to  say  :  I  have  not  always  thought  so.  No,  that's 
true,  and  once  I  was  brutal  enough  to  say  so."  Con 
stance  blushed  vividly.  "  I  see  I  needn't  remind  you. 
It  was  shameful,  and  I  hope  you  believe  that  I  have  the 
grace  to  feel  I've  no  right  to  speak  now,  except  such  as 
I  find  in  your  charity.  I  had  agreed  with  myself  never 
to  speak,  and  you  see  how  I  keep  my  resolve.  I've  no 
excuse — unless  you  call  my  love  an  excuse.  That  is  for 
you  to  say." 


228  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Stop  !  stop  !  It's  treason  to  let  you  say  what  you 
have  said.  It's  disloyal  to  let  you  go  on.  I  am  already 
bound — sacredly  bound." 

The  pain  that  possessed  him  translated  itself  through 
his  eyes,  so  that  when  he  said,  "  I  need  not  ask  to 
whom  ?  "  she  answered  very  gently, 

"  I  don't  know.  It  is  to  Mr.  Keator.  You  remember 
him  ? " 

"  So  clearly  that  I've  no  difficulty  in  measuring  the 
slightness  of  my  chance  against  him."  He  rose  and 
stood  by  his  chair  while  he  said,  "  I  can't  presume  to  ask 
your  pardon  for  having  spoken,  though  I  think  in  your 
goodness,  you  would  grant  it ;  but  I  can  say  '  good 
bye.'  " 

He  put  out  his  hand.  She  rose  and  took  it  mechani 
cally. 

"  Good-bye  ? "  she  said,  slowly.  "  No  !  no !  What  do 
you  mean  ? " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  asked,  breathlessly,  as  he 
looked  down  into  her  eyes. 

She  resumed  her  throne  abruptly,  and  he  sank  into 
his  seat.  Constance  brushed  her  hand  lightly  and 
repeatedly  over  her  gown,  while  she  regarded  it  in 
absorption. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  she  said,  at  length,  in  a  low 
voice,  without  looking  up. 

"  I  should  greatly  like  to,"  he  returned,  gravely. 

She  set  her  hand  skimming  in  swifter  motions  over  the 
smooth  surface  of  her  gown,  while  she  turned  her  head 
half  away,  as  women  do  when  they  wish  to  see  a  thing 
completely. 

"  It  is — it  is  only  temporary,"  she  told  him,  looking 
up  suddenly  with  a  smile  which  dazzled  him. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  229 

March  stayed  himself  against  his  chair. 

"  Temporary  ?  What  ? "  he  asked,  huskily,  as  he  leaned 
forward. 

"  I  ought  not  to  call  it  that.  It  is  as  binding  as  any 
engagement  can  be — only  that  he  will  not  claim  its 
fulfilment." 

A  light  broke  over  March's  face. 

"  You  can't  expect  me  to  believe  that !  "  he  said. 

Constance  smiled. 

"  Ah  !    I  see  that  I  shall  have  to  explain." 

She  went  back  and  gave  him  some  part  of  the  history 
of  her  relation  with  Mr.  Keator. 

"  Poor  Keator  !  "  exclaimed  March,  as  she  finished. 
"  No  wonder  his  resolution  failed  him  for  a  moment. 
After  such  a  sacrifice  if  he  had  not  faltered  for  a  little, 
one  couldn't  feel  sympathy  with  him  as  a  fellow-man. 
To  think  of  his  giving  you  up  because  of  his  duty  to 
the  Church  !  Compared  with  a  surrender  like  that, 
what  have  I  ever  done  to  merit  a  thought  of  yours  ? " 

Constance  gave  him  an  arch  smile. 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  fancy,"  she  said,  roguishly. 

"  It's  a  kind  of  impudence  to  name  myself  after  such 
a  man,"  he  went  on,  quickly,  not  heeding  her  answer, 
"  but  I  must  know  now.  Dearest,  I  don't  ask  you  to 
promise  anything — it  would  be  treason,  as  you  say.  But 
I  have  a  right  to  know  your  feeling.  Constance,  you 
don't  dislike  me  ?" 

She  pretended  to  consider  a  moment. 

"  No,"  she  said,  judicially. 

"  Then " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  March,  Mr.  Keator  asked  me  if  there  was 
no  one,  nothing  to  interfere  with  my  keeping  my  promise. 
And  I  told  him  no  one — nothing." 


230  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Her  face  crimsoned,  and  she  caught  out  her  handker 
chief  to  hide  it. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  murmured,  as  she  looked  studi 
ously  down  and  made  fold  after  fold  in  her  dress,  "  that 
I  ought  to  tell  you — that " 

"  That  you  have  the  folly  to  care  for  such  a  poor 
fellow  as  I  ?  No,  dearest,  don't  expose  yourself  in  that 
way.  Let  us  take  it  for  granted,"  he  whispered,  as  he 
drew  her  toward  him. 

"I'm  afraid  we  are  not  doing  right,"  she  said,  doubt 
fully,  as  they  began  the  descent  of  the  steep  stair  some 
minutes  later. 

"  If  the  pleasantness  of  a  thing  proves  it  wrong,  we 
are  committing  nothing  less  than  a  crime,"  owned  March, 
with  the  complaisance  of  his  happiness. 

"  I  am  thinking  what  Mr.  Keator  would  say.  But 
what  could  he  say  ?  I  promised  nothing,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  you  think  that  he  will  not  claim 
you  before  the  year  is  out  ? " 

"  You  know  Mr.  Keator  ;  do  you  think  it  likely  ? " 

March  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  know  men,  and  it  does  not  seem  impossible.  I 
think  of  my  own  feeling,  darling,"  he  whispered,  as  they 
paused  on  the  stairs,  "and  it  seems  certain." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CONSTANCE'S  rebellious  confidence  immediately  after 
her  father's  death  that  somehow  he  must  come  back, 
that  surely  she  should  find  him  in  his  seat  at  table,  or  in 
his  accustomed  reading-chair,  or  at  worst  see  him  come 
driving  down  the  long  street  at  night,  with  his  smile  and 
kiss  for  her  as  he  alighted,  was  not  unlike  the  cheating 
assurance  with  which  Mr.  Keator  indulged  his  aching 
heart  as  he  went  back  to  his  house  after  his  farewell  to 
her.  He  repeated  her  words,  and  made  the  coach  grow 
in  the  air  before  him,  but  there  was  only  a  single  passen 
ger,  and  she  was  leaning  out  and  asking,  "  You  do  not 
wish  me  to  stay  ?  You  are  glad  I  am  doing  this  ?  "  His 
envious  regret  that  he  had  not  dared  all,  and  accepted 
the  sacrifice  which  her  words  had  seemed  to  offer,  passed 
instantly  into  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  for  her  generosity. 
And  again  her  spirit  was  intensely  present  to  him,  and 
he  could  not  disenchant  himself  from  the  stubborn  faith 
that  she  must  follow  in  person. 

That  night  he  lay  awake  imagining  the  things  which 
she  would  say  in  the  situations  he  provided  for  her.  But 
they  were  like  a  manufactured  mineral  water.  The 
chemical  constituents  were  there — he  had  learned  some 
thing  of  the  formula  in  his  long  association  with  her — 
but  the  essential  principle  was  lacking,  and  nothing 
could  be  more  flat  than  the  compound.  It  was  a  sort  of 


232  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT, 

illusion  which  only  put  her  further  away  by  its  spurious- 
ness,  and  he  remembered  sadly  that  one  of  her  great 
charms  had  always  been  the  quality  of  surprise  in  her. 
It  was  very  well  to  say  that  one  knew  her  ideas,  her 
opinions,  even  her  character,  but  no  one  had  the  key  to 
her  fancy,  and  it  was  her  discriminating  use  of  that 
which  gave  one  the  agreeable  sense  of  talking  every  day 
with  a  fresh  person,  who  was  yet  preciously  familiar.  He 
summoned  her  before  his  disappointed  vision  in  every 
form,  and  upon  every  side  of  her  nature  which  she  had 
made  known  to  him.  But  the  very  likeness  in'  unlike- 
ness  was  more  bitter  than  to  own  her  lost  altogether. 

The  mere  sense  of  void,  the  longing  to  see  her,  the 
irresistible  feeling  that  somehow  the  custom  of  yesterday 
must  be  the  custom  of  to-day,  and  that  if  it  was  not 
other  things  must  change  importantly,  were,  however, 
more  tolerable  than  the  contest  with  himself,  on  which 
he  entered  when  he  rose  next  morning,  and  which  he 
knew  must  at  length  be  fought  squarely  out,  and  was  not 
to  be  determined  in  a  day  or  a  month. 

These  are  the  battles  that  try  men's  strength.  The 
fierce  fights  decided  between  sunrise  and  sunset  ask  the 
sudden  bravery  which  most  men  can  find  for  the  emer 
gency.  Bunker  Hill  was  fought  with  sounding  music  and 
fluttering  colors,  the  urgence  of  commanders,  each  man's 
shoulder  to  his  comrade's,  the  enemy  in  front,  and  the 
madness-working  carnage  everywhere.  It  was  a  matter 
of  valor,  and  in  the  impetus  of  battle  it  is  easier  to  be 
valorous  than  to  be  cowardly.  But  when  the  unkempt, 
starved,  disease-smitten  little  army  sat  down  at  Valley 
Forge  to  face  the  hardships  of  a  bitter  winter,  bravery  was 
not  the  facile  matter  they  had  found  it  in  battle.  It 
was  not  stirring  restlessly  in  their  hearts,  waiting  to  be 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  233 

born  in  cheers  upon  their  lips.  It  had  to  be  forced  to 
scorn  cold  and  privation  and  nakedness. 

Mr.  Keator  had  not  expected  an  easy  victory  over  his 
love,  but  when  he  had  asked  Constance  for  the  tempta 
tion  with  which  he  was  now  wrestling,  his  imagination, 
set  it  the  task  as  he  might,  could  not  go  forward  among 
the  slow  days  of  the  future  and  tell  him  with  what  pain 
they  would  be  filled.  His  trouble  rose  with  him  in  the 
morning,  and  made  him  so  silent  while  he  remained 
in  the  house,  that  Conrad,  and  Benicin  —  his  faithful 
servant — asked  themselves,  and  at  length  asked  him,  if 
he  were  quite  well.  His  difficulty  was  not  silenced  by 
the  busy  occupations  of  the  day.  It  was  perhaps  less 
intelligible  than  during  the  long  nights,  but  it  lay  with  a 
dull  ache  about  his  breast.  If  by  chance  he  was  dis 
tracted  from  it  he  returned  to  memory  with  an  added 
pang.  He  was  constantly  assailed  by  the  temptation  to 
go  and  see  her.  She  was  really  not  very  distant.  He 
had  but  to  take  the  coach  which  left  the  inn  every  other 
morning,  and  by  the  next  morning  he  should  be  with 
her.  He  would  sometimes  plan  how  he  might  see  her 
without  her  knowledge,  but  his  relentless  faith  to  the 
intention  which  he  had  expressed  to  her  invariably 
restrained  him. 

Save  to  himself  he  had  made  no  promises.  That  was 
the  essence  of  his  situation  :  he  was  perfectly  free.  He 
might  go  to  Quinnimont  ;  he  might  remain  there  as  long 
as  it  pleased  him.  She  could  not  complain.  It  was  she 
who  had  made  the  promises  ;  she  was  the  only  one  who 
could  break  the  literal  word  between  them.  But  the 
spirit  of  their  agreement,  the  tacit  contract,  was  infinitely 
more  sacred  to  him.  The  opportunity  which  she  had 
generously  yielded  him  to  regain  his  self-respect — not 


234  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

merely  to  refuse  a  good  which  was  securely  out  of  his 
reach,  but  to  turn  stoutly  from  a  happiness,  coveted 
above  all  things  in  the  world,  and  to  be  had  for  stretch 
ing  forth  his  hand — carried  with  it,  he  felt  deeply,  the 
obligation  on  his  part  to  resist  every  approach  to  the 
temptation  which  he  had  set  himself.  It  was  not  alone 
that  finally  he  would  not  take  what  she  nominally  offered, 
but  that  during  this  time  of  probation  he  would  punctili 
ously  keep  himself  from  so  much  as  the  appearance  of  a 
motion  toward  it. 

He  often  sought  consolation  in  the  writing  of  sermons, 
whose  admonitions,  directed  in  form  toward  his  flock, 
whipped  his  secret  sins.  He  poured  his  soul  into  these 
compositions,  and  he  had  never  preached  so  earnestly. 
It  was  said  that  Mr.  Keator  had  received  a  special 
inspiration  of  late,  and  he  received  visits  from  members 
of  his  church  who  came  to  thank  him  for  words  that 
seemed  spoken  to  their  special  need. 

Occasionally  their  visits  cheered  him  by  the  commun 
ity  of  experience  which  they  suggested,  but  he  seldom 
found  heart  to  palliate  his  own  inclinations  to  sin,  with 
knowledge  that  others  were  tempted  like  him.  Even 
the  elders  spoke  of  the  "  wise  and  godly  discourses " 
which  induced  them  to  hope  that  he  was  regaining  his 
health,  although  one  of  them  mentioned  in  private  that 
"  somehow  Mr.  Keator  isn't  looking  right." 

On  a  Sunday  about  a  month  after  Constance  had  gone, 
he  preached  from  the  text,  "  Thinkest  thou  that  I  can 
not  now  pray  to  my  Father  and  He  shall  presently  give 
me  more  than  twelve  legions  of  angels  ? "  and  drew 
from  it  the  lesson  of  the  genuine  self-sacrifice — not  the 
kind  of  denial  which  turns  from  desired  things  because 
of  lack  of  energy,  or  to  win  the  world's  applause,  or 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  235 

declines  an  impossible  joy  ;  but  the  rare,  costly  sort 
which  nobly  will  not  take  that  which  fairly  belongs  to  it, 
because  it  willingly  bows  to  a  higher  right.*  This  ser 
mon  gave  him  great  comfort  both  in  the  writing  and 
delivery,  for  it  set  before  him  with  inevitable  clearness 
his  whole  duty  and  the  highest  thing  toward  which  he 
was  set  to  strive  in  the  contest  that  engaged  him.  It 
stirred  his  hearers  also,  and  that  which  seemed  to  them 
in  it  the  wholesome  ring  of  earnestness  was  no  worse  for 
being  also  the  ring  of  experience. 

The  duties  of  his  calling  were  certainly  abundant 
enough  to  busy  his  mind.  But  care  could  not  solace  the 
incessant  longing  at  his  heart.  The  soldier's  knapsack 
is  not  less  a  burden,  we  know,  because  his  feet  have 
occupation  ;  and  the  love,  which  he  was  making  it  his 
business  to  rid  himself  of,  constantly  weighed  his 
spirit,  whatever  labor  he  might  be  about.  His  peo 
ple,  who  were  not  extraordinarily  observant,  said  among 
themselves  that  Mr.  Keator's  usual  abstraction  increased. 
But  they  could  not  complain  of  his  want  of  diligence. 
In  all  the  good  works  of  the  Church  he  was  more  than 
ever  assiduous. 

He  visited  his  people  privately  more  often  than  had 
been  his  wont,  and  strove  to  absorb  himself  in  their 
spiritual  needs.  Physical  necessities  they  had  very  few, 
for  all  were  on  a  comfortable  level  of  prosperity,  and 
their  constant,  scrupulous,  and  varied  industry  gave  them 
the  best  right  to  that  ease  about  the  affairs  of  this  world 
which  leaves  leisure  and  peace  of  mind  for  thought  of 
the  next.  Mr.  Keator  liked  now,  too,  to  go  among  his 
flock  at  their  work  and  content  himself  with  the  sight  of 

*  The  originality  of  this  interpretation  with  Mr.  Keator,  the  writer 
wishes  to  disclaim. 


236  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

their  fruitful  energy.  He  had  a  sound  and  thrifty  sense 
about  matters  of  money  and  every  day  needs,  as  they 
touched  the  welfare  of  his  people,  which  might  have 
surprised  one  who  had  approached  him  only  on  the  side 
of  his  finely  sensitive  mental  and  spiritual  organization. 
It  is  true  that  he  was  by  nature  impractical  ;  but  we 
know  how  men  subvert  their  most  stubborn  characteris 
tics,  and  teach  themselves  to  do  strange  things  for  a 
great  love.  Such  a  love  Mr.  J^eator  bore  his  Church, 
and  especially  those  members  of  its  mystical  body  over 
whom  he  had  been  set.  He  had  an  affectionate  feeling 
for  each  one  of  them,  and  a  sympathetic  understanding 
of  their  characters.  Those  whom  he  watched  over,  and 
guided,  and  loved,  as  a  shepherd  does  his  sheep,  could 
not  fail  to  give  him  back  his  affection  ;  and  as  he  walked 
through  the  clock-works  and  the  other  factories — from 
which  work  came  stamped  with  a  better  trademark,  in 
the  knowledge  that  Moravian  faithfulness  had  guided  its 
making,  than  all  mercantile  branding  could  give  it — and 
went  among  the  brethren  at  their  work  in  the  well-kept 
fields — the  produce  of  which  purchasers  were  glad  of, 
because  of  their  trust  in  farmers  who  scanted  no  measure 
and  left  the  large  potatoes  at  the  bottom — all  whom 
he  met  turned  their  faces  at  his  greeting  with  a  smile  of 
keen  liking.  The  women  looked  up  from  their  work, 
within  doors,  with  glances  softer,  because  they  were 
woman's  glances,  but  with  the  same  meaning  in  them 
— a  meaning  grateful  to  the  minister  in  these  days  of  self- 
distrust.  The  sense  of  this  atmosphere  of  faithfulness 
to  the  common  duties  of  life  began,  too,  to  have  a  new 
preciousness  to  him.  He  liked  to  feel  it  encompassing 
him.  It  breathed  scorchingly  upon  the  thought  of  the 
smallest  disloyalty. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  237 

One  afternoon  as  he  was  leaving  the  choir-house  of 
the  Single  Sisters,  he  found  himself  at  the  rear  door 
way  confronted  by  Sister  Zelda's  kindly  old  face.  She 
was  just  going  out  to  the  garden,  which  was  her  especial 
charge. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  see  you  again,  Sister  Zelda,"  said 
the  minister,  taking  her  hand.  "  They  told  me  you  had 
not  been  well." 

"  I  have  kept  my  room  for  a  day  or  more.  An  old 
woman  must  expect  it,  you  know."  She  smiled,  but  she 
looked  sharply  over  her  spectacles  to  ask  him,  "  What 
do  you  hear  from  Constance — Sister  Constance,  if  it  is 
right  that  I  should  call  her  so  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  may  call  her  Sister  Constance,  Sister 
Zelda,"  he  returned,  gravely.  "  I  like  best  to  think  of 
her  as  still  one  of  us,  though  she  has  gone  away.  I  did 
not  ask  her  to  give  up  her  position  among  us.  She  cares 
enough  for  us,  I  am  sure,  not  to  wish  utterly  to  sever 
herself  from  that  link  to  the  memory  of  her  father  ;  and 
on  our  side  we  must  remember,  I  think,  that  she  is  Dr. 
Van  Cleef's  daughter,  and  as  such  has  a  very  especial 
claim  upon  us.  He  did  much  for  the  Church,  and  loved 
it  ;  and  none  of  us  should  harbor  a  thought  of  ill-will 
toward  him  because  he  had  been  away  from  us  so  long 
as  to  forget  some  of  our  rules,  or  against  her  because  in 
her  young  pride  she  violated  them." 

"  Nay,  I  should  be  much  rejoiced  to  welcome  her  back. 
All  of  us  would.  She  has  no  enemies  among  the  sisters 
or  brethren." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  hope  not.  I  hope  not.  She  has  most 
generous  intentions  toward  us,  I  may  tell  you  in  con 
fidence." 

"  That   is  like  her,"  exclaimed  Sister  Zelda.     "  Will 


238  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

you  come  out  and  watch  me  at  my  gardening?"  she 
asked.  "  I  must  not  lose  time  in  idleness  after  missing 
so  many  good  hours  through  my  little  sickness.  I  am 
getting  old  for  the  work  up-stairs.  They  would  rather 
keep  spryer  hands  for  the  bread-winning  work.  But  the 
garden  is  left  to  me.  Even  an  old  woman  may  mind 
that,  and  I  must  mind  it  well.  Come  out  into  the  sun 
shine  here,  if  you  are  in  no  haste,  and  we  will  talk 
together  while  I  work." 

She  set  herself  briskly  to  the  use  of  her  trowel,  while 
Mr.  Keator  stood  before  her  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bed,  talking  as  he  liked  to  do  with  this  shrewd,  light- 
hearted,  gentle,  little  old  woman  about  the  affairs  of  the 
Church.  He  found  sometimes  more  wisdom  in  her 
quick  comments  than  in  the  deliberate  pronouncements 
of  the  elders.  But  after  they  had  discussed  Church 
concerns  for  some  time,  they  suddenly  came  back  to 
questions  more  immediately  within  the  range  of  personal 
feeling. 

"  You  did  not  tell  me  what  you  hear  from  Sister  Con 
stance?" 

"  No  ;  I  don't  hear,"  answered  the  minister,  briefly. 

"  She  is  with  her  aunt  in  Maryland  still." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  believe  so.  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt 
it." 

"  And  where  is  Mr.  March  ?  " 

Mr.  Keator  looked  as  if  he  did  not  understand  the 
connection  of  the  thoughts,  but  he  replied  at  once, 

"  In  England,  I  suppose.  He  went  back,  you 
remember,  on  account  of  the  death  of  his  brother." 

"  Mr.  Keator,  did  you  think  she  had  truly  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  him  ?" 

The  minister  hesitated.     "  That  was  not  the  question, 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  239 

you  know,"  he  said.  "  It  was  the  effect  of  their  associa 
tion  upon  the  others.  That  was  what  made  the  reproof 
needful  after  giving  her  due  private  warning.  But  I 
was  very  sorry  Elder  Weiss  went  so  far." 

This  may  have  seemed  to  Sister  Zelda  like  avoiding 
the  question.  At  all  events  she  brought  the  minister 
respectfully  back  to  the  subject  of  her  inquiry.  "  Yes, 
yes,  I  did  think  Elder  Weiss  too  hard,  though  of  course 
it  isn't  for  me  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  elders.  If 
they  weren't  in  love,  it  seems  as  if  that  might  make  them 
so." 

This  inclusion  of  March's  feeling  did  not  make  the 
topic  more  agreeable  to  Mr.  Keator. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes  ;  I  thought  of  that,  and  it  was  bitter  to 
me,"  he  exclaimed,  thinking  aloud,  unconsciously.  "  But 
I  had  no  right  to  consider  the  consequences." 

"  No,  you  had  your  duty,  though  there  might  be  godly 
ministers,  methinks,  who  would  not  have  such  strict 
notions  of  duty  in  a  matter  like  that." 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  I  was  bound  to  be  strict,  because  I  was 
tempted  to  be  lenient." 

"  Yet  she  was  only  a  girl.  It  was  hard  to  wound  her 
so." 

"  Very  hard,"  assented  Mr.  Keator. 

And  after  a  time  he  went  away,  fancying  that  he  had 
kept  his  secret  from  this  shrewd  dame. 

But  his  impalpable  sense  touching  March,  thus  given 
an  outward  embodiment,  shamed  him.  He  began  to  fear 
that  he  had  been  jealous  of  him.  And  what  right  had  he 
to  be  jealous  ?  Few  things  could  have  cut  this  sensitive 
man  deeper  than  this  thought ;  and  he  threw  himself 
with  even  more  than  his  former  vigor  into  his  labors  for 
the  Church. 
16 


240  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

In  the  pleasures  which  were  dear  to  him  he  indulged 
himself  less  and  less.  He  seldom  now  went  into  the 
woods  to  gather  flowers,  and  his  herbarium  was  thickly 
overlaid  with  dust.  He  summoned  the  brethren  and  sis 
ters  more  frequently  to  Sprechens,  and  in  this  form  of  pri 
vate  spiritual  confession  encouraged  and  admonished 
them  fervently.  As  he  grew  more  rigorous  with  himself  he 
unconsciously  set  up  more  inflexible  standards  for  them, 
and  young  sisters  would  sometimes  return  to  their  choir- 
houses,  after  one  of  these  intimate  conversations  with 
their  pastor,  wondering  what  had  made  Mr.  Keator  so 
strict  of  late. 

The  numerous  festivals  and  anniversaries  of  the  Church 
be  became  more  than  commonly  eager  to  have  duly  cele 
brated.  Beginning  with  the  kindcrstund,  or  children's 
meeting,  each  choir  had  its  special  days  set  apart,  and  at 
different  times  in  every  week  each  had  its  services. 

Conrad  began  to  assist  him  in  some  part  of  his  work, 
but  Mr.  Keator  did  as  much  as  possible  himself.  The 
yearly  gcmein  fest  (the  anniversary  of  the  consecration  of 
the  church),  the  feast  of  the  elders,  the  house  feasts  (in 
celebration  of  the  consecration  of  the  various  choir- 
houses),  the  brethren's,  widows',  and  sisters'  feast,  together 
with  most  of  the  regular  festivals  of  the  English 
Church,  properly  afforded  occupation  for  more  than  one 
minister.  Mr.  Keator,  however,  only  allowed  Conrad's 
help  upon  the  plea  of  a  kind  of  preliminary  training  for 
him.  He  alleged  that  he  needed  no  assistance,  and  in 
proof  of  this  required  more  of  his  strength  than  it  could 
give.  His  pale  face  became  unnaturally  colorless  ;  his 
energy  grew  more  and  more  a  matter  of  will,  and  the 
Advent  season  found  him  much  broken  both  in  body 
and  mind.  The  elders  urged  him  to  take  a  vacation, 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  241 

and  found  him  unexpectedly  willing.  He  would  go  to 
New  York,  he  said.  He  was  expecting  the  arrival  of  a 
young  lady  by  a  vessel  which  would  soon  be  due.  An 
uncertain  smile  went  about  among  the  elders  at  this  an 
nouncement,  and  Elder  Reidel — who,  in  his  capacity  of 
admirer  of  Constance's  voice,  was  accustomed  still  to 
maintain  its  superiority  when  music  was  discussed — said, 

"  What  you  say,  Brother  Keator,  makes  our  errand 
easier.  We  do  not  think  of  marriages  among  the  breth 
ren  as  they  do  in  the  world  outside,  and  as  we  are  all 
brothers  together  in  Christ" —  Elder  Reidel  hesitated 
a  moment  and  looked  at  his  finger-nails,  while  Mr.  Keator 
wondered,  with  a  sick  feeling  about  his  heart,  what  was 
coming.  "  We  are  working  for  the  same  end,  and— you 
tell  him,  Brother  Berg  !  "  he  entreated  helplessly,  sitting 
down. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  elder,  "  it  is  rather  your  office." 

"  Well,  you  see,  it's  this  way,  Brother  Keator,"  contin 
ued  Elder  Reidel,  desperately.  His  florid  cheeks  grew 
more  red  than  usual,  and  the  lines  of  his  good-natured 
face,  in  which  merriment  sat  at  other  times,  were  full  of 
perplexity.  "  We  would  like  to  see  you  well  married,  that 
is  all."  He  wiped  his  forehead.  "  Of  course,  with 
proper  submission  of  the  question  to  the  Lord  by  lot  and 
the  approval  of  the  Council,  for  it  is  wisely  said  that  the 
minister's  marriage  is  of  public  importance,  and  not  — 
'  not  to  be  entered  into  unadvisedly  or  lightly,'  "  he  con 
cluded,  with  a  sense  of  relief  in  finding  the  sentence 
ready  made  to  his  hands. 

"  WTe  do  not  presume  to  advise,"  said  Elder  Weiss  ; 
"  we  merely  suggest." 

Elder  Englehart,  who  had  sat  quietly  listening,  inter 
posed  with, 


242  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  You  must  not  misunderstand  us,  brother  ;  we  have 
no  call  to  make  or  meddle  in  the  matter.  We  know  that. 
But  as  brethren  together  we  have  taken  thought 
for  you.  You  have  not  seemed  well  of  late — and  per 
haps — we  do  not  mean  to  pry,  brother — not  quite  happy. 
You  have  no  head  in  your  household,  and  you  remember 
the  scripture  words,  '  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  live 
alone.'  " 

Brother  Berg,  who  felt  easier,  although  Mr.  Keator 
said  nothing,  but  simply  looked  rather  quizzically  from 
one  to  the  other  as  they  spoke,  said  that  they  ought  to 
add  that  his  marriage  would  be  for  the  Church's  advant 
age  also. 

"  That  looks  as  if  we  had  been  saying  one  word  for  you 
and  two  for  ourselves,"  he  owned,  with  his  broad,  com 
plaisant  smile.  "  But  we  do  not  mean  that.  It  would 
be  for  our  good  that  you  should  take  a  discreet  woman  to 
yourself.  That  is  true  ;  but  much  more  for  your  own. 
I  would  not  go  to  speak  of  my  own  experience " 

Brother  Berg  indulged  a  mysterious  smile  and  watched 
himself  twirl  his  thumbs. 

The  other  elders  smiled  with  him,  for  Mistress  Berg 
was  notoriously  the  ruler  of  her  mild  husband.  Mr.  Kea 
tor  rubbed  his  shaven  chin,  and  tapped  with  his  crutch  the 
hearth  before  which  he  sat  in  a  deep,  leathern  chair.  The 
embarrassment  of  the  group  visibly  renewed  itself  while 
they  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  interest,  brothers,"  he  said,  at 
length,  gently.  "  What  you  have  said  shall  receive  my 
attention.  It  is  fair  to  tell  you  that  it  has  already  en 
gaged  a  share  of  it.  I  have  not  been  unmindful  of  the  pro 
priety  of  marrying.  You  are  right,  I  think,  in  believing 
that  a  minister's  power  for  good  is  multiplied  when  he 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  243 

takes  a  proper  wife,  and  to  that  end,  as  you  have  deli 
cately  refrained  from  saying,  the  Church  advises  early 
marriages  among  her  clergy.  You  will  believe  that  I 

have  always  felt  this,  but  I — circumstances  in  which . 

My  dear  brethren,  may  I  not  ask  for  some  time  to  con 
sider  your  suggestion  ?  It  comes  somewhat  unexpect 
edly.  Upon  my  return " 

"Then  the  young  woman  whom  you  are  to  meet ?  " 

hesitated  Elder  Berg. 

"  Is  my  sister.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  that.  She 
has  been  for  some  years  at  school  in  England.  I  hope 
to  have  her  with  me  permanently  now." 

The  elders  made  their  exclamations  and  congratula 
tions,  and  took  their  departure.  But  Mr.  Keator  remained 
for  a  long  time  in  his  chair  before  the  fire,  reflecting, 
with  some  self-accusation,  upon  the  incident.  He  won 
dered  whether  the  elders  represented  the  general  desire 
of  his  congregation.  If  they  did,  he  felt  that  it  brought 
what  suddenly  seemed  to  him  his  paltering  with  his  feel 
ings  to  an  issue.  He  must  either  give  up  the  smallest 
thought  of  Constance  or  his  pastorate.  If  the  congrega 
tion  wished  a  married  minister — and  surely  it  was  a  fair 
desire — who  was  he  that  he  should  oppose  them  ?  The 
test  of  himself  which  he  was  making,  for  a  moment 
seemed  fantastic,  but  immediately  all  his  finer  senses  rose 
to  protest  its  reasonableness.  Yet  somehow,  it  must  be 
brought  to  an  end.  In  other  words,  he  must  put  Con 
stance  wholly  out  of  his  thought,  and  as  he  stated  this  to 
himself  he  groaned  in  conscious  weakness  at  the  memory 
of  her  dearness,  and  the  impossibility  of  an  act  that  alien 
ated  her.  The  harassed  minister  rose  impetuously,  and 
kneeling  before  his  chair  prayed  fervently  for  strength. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  coming  of  Rose  Keator  brought  about  many 
changes.  She  did  not  look  like  a  revolutionist  with  her 
flaxen  hair,  and  blue  eyes  set  in  her  bright  face,  but  from 
the  moment  she  entered  her  brother's  plain  house  she 
began,  as  people  from  afar  will,  to  try  things  by  her 
standards,  and  when  they  failed  by  these  maidenly  meas 
ures  she  set  herself  to  bring  about  the  proper  corres 
pondence.  She  observed  to  herself  at  once,  for  instance, 
that  her  brother's  home  was  the  home  of  a  bachelor. 

"  Poor  brother  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Is  this  the  way 
you  have  been  living?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  dear,  but  I  think  Ben- 
icia  has  changed  nothing  on  account  of  your  arrival." 

"  Unpapered  walls,  uncarpeted  floors,  books  and  news 
papers  everywhere  !  "  she  went  on,  recounting  the  enor 
mities  to  herself.  "  Does  Benicia  ever  dust  ? " 

"  Not  here.  I  should  never  find  any  thing.  I'm 
afraid  of  her." 

"  I  shall  make  you  afraid  of  me,"  she  cried,  laughing, 
as  she  led  the  way  to  the  adjoining  room. 

"  You  are  at  liberty  to  do  anything  you  like  ;  only 
remember  the  amount  of  my  stipend." 

"  One  can  be  neat  on  very  little,"  replied  Rose,  slyly. 

Conrad  accompanied  them  while  she  inspected  the 
house  in  her  travelling  dress. 

"  There  is  space  enough,"  she  said.     "  It  will  make  a 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  245 

nice  little  house  for  our  small  family  ;  but  you  have  not 
been  treating  it  well." 

Conrad  was  amused. 

"  We  are  not  housekeepers,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  which 
prepared  Rose  to  like  him. 

"  I  see  I  must  make  friends  with  the  one  who  holds 
that  office,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  She  has  been  very  faithful.  You  must  approach  her 
gently,"  said  Mr.  Keator. 

"  She  shan't  know  that  she  is  being  supplanted,  and 
I  shall  hope  to  make  her  believe  that  she  wishes  all  that 
I  shall  do.  I've  been  living  very  simply,  but  I  see  I 
shall  have  to  bring  out  all  my  store  of  diplomacy,  John," 
she  said,  laying  her  hand  absently  on  his  shoulder. 

It  was  long  since  he  had  seen  his  sister,  and  he  remem 
bered  her  only  as  a  child.  He  was  charmed  with  her. 
Her  caressing  touch  was  a  kind  of  balm.  The  family 
amenities,  the  endearments  among  kindred  had  been  a 
forgotten  thing  to  him  for  many  years.  Now  that  he 
knew  them  again  they  were  indescribably  sweet.  He 
felt  that  his  sister's  pure  presence  was  a  kind  of  guard 
against  wrong  of  any  kind.  To  have  some  one  always 
near  who  had  faith  in  one  by  the  tie  of  blood,  and  a 
right  to  complain  if  her  faith  was  abused,  was  to  be 
hedged  by  a  secure  barrier  against  every  species  of 
wrong-doing. 

Lacking  the  protection  of  both  father  and  mother, 
Rose  had  been  thrown,  from  her  infancy,  entirely  upon 
her  brother's  care,  and  the  pains  which  her  nurture  and 
education  had  cost  him  were  not  things  to  diminish  his 
affection  for  her,  while  she  looked  up  to  him  gratefully 
as  her  childish  hero.  When  her  sensible  training  at  the 
excellent  provincial  school  in  which  he  had  placed  her 


246  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

was  complete,  she  had  found,  for  a  few  years,  a  home  in 
a  family  whose  members  had  been  friends  of  her  mother. 
She  had  taught  the  children,  and  occupied  herself  with 
the  duties  of  a  governess  under  the  most  urbane  disci 
pline  and  mild  requirements.  Her  experience  had  natur 
ally  imparted  a  certain  independence  to  her  character, 
but  it  had  not  robbed  it  of  its  essential  gentleness  and 
grace.  She  was  known  for  her  energy,  which  was  indom 
itable,  though  not  of  the  restless  sort  which  deprives 
the  subject  of  its  kindly  efforts  of  comfort,  in  order  to 
make  them  comfortable. 

She  went  about  the  reform  of  her  brother's  house  with 
modest  but  relentless  vigor.  Her  revolutions  were 
wrought  with  the  quickness  and  secrecy  of  conspiracy, 
and  were  usually  accomplished,  after  the  ingenious  wom 
anly  manner,  when  no  men  were  about  to  interfere.  She 
caused  Mr.  Keator  to  spend  a  day  with  her  in  Philadel 
phia,  where  she  surprised  the  deliberate  shopkeepers  by 
her  uncommon  familiarity  with  her  own  wishes,  and  the 
alertness  of  her  decisions  touching  papers  and  carpets. 
They  must  have  something  simple,  she  said,  but  some 
thing  pretty  and  not  expensive.  This  difficult  desider 
atum  she  secured,  despite  the  protestations  of  the  shop 
keepers  that  they  had  not  what  she  wanted.  She  waited 
patiently  until  they  had  proved  themselves  wrong,  and 
then  gently  declined  their  offers  of  richer  articles — offers 
made  in  a  manner  which  ought  to  have  convinced  any 
one  of  his  mistake  in  imagining  that  he  knew  what  he 
desired. 

When  she  returned  to  Judea  she  called  in  the  services 
of  a  brother,  who  had  served  an  apprenticeship  to  a 
paper-hanger  before  joining  the  community  and,  with 
Benicia  and  one  of  the  young  boys  as  carpet  layers,  she 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  247 

worked  a  transformation  in  the  course  of  a  week  which 
won  Mr.  Keator's  praise.  He  had  not  been  accustomed 
to  reckon  with  the  adornments  of  life,  but  he  recognized 
their  grace  and  efficacy  now  that  they  were  offered  him, 
and  he  began  to  have  a  sense  of  pride  in  such  a  sister. 
The  neatness  and  propriety  of  his  table,  Rose's  becom 
ing  presidency  at  the  head  of  it,  the  ingenious  devices  of 
her  planning  for  making  his  life  smooth  in  all  ways,  gave 
him  genuine  satisfaction.  He  would  not  have  supposed 
himself  capable  of  finding  pleasure  in  such  things,  but 
the  charm  of  them  grew  upon  him.  He  began  to  enjoy 
her  energy,  which  spent  itself  wisely  but  unsparingly 
upon  the  mysterious  needs  of  housekeeping.  Benicia  had 
not  given  him  the  idea  that  there  was  so  much  to  do,  and 
he  began  to  tell  his  sister  that  he  fancied  she  invented 
work  to  keep  her  hands  busy. 

"  We  never  did  so  much  before,"  he  declared. 

"You  were  camping  out,  you  know,  brother." 

"  I  hope  we  have  begun  to  live  in  a  fit  dwelling,"  he 
said,  taking  her  hand  with  his  kindly  smile. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ? " 

"  I  like  everything,  dear — everything  that  you've 
done."  He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "You  have  been  a 
magician  to  the  house  ;  but  the  best  thing  in  it  will 
always  be  its  mistress." 

Her  light  laugh  in  the  old  parsonage  seemed  to  imbue 
him  with  its  cheerfulness  ;  her  womanly  step  and  car 
riage,  the  rustle  of  her  brief  skirts,  the  deft,  vision- 
endowed  fingers  that  went  before  him  everywhere  for 
his  comfort,  her  trim  little  figure  at  the  fireside,  even  her 
anxious  squaring  of  the  dinner-table  grew  dear  to  him. 

In  his  pleasure  in  her  presence  the  tormenting  thoughts 
which  had  haunted  his  loneliness  retreated,  and  only 


248  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT, 

attacked  him  at  intervals.  He  sunned  himself  in  the 
light  of  Rose's  affectionate  care  for  him.  In  this  com 
plaisant  humor  he  was  ready  to  believe,  as  was  indeed 
partly  true,  that  his  people,  who  began  to  love  his  sister, 
would  see  how  nearly  she  filled  the  place  which  they 
desired  to  see  filled,  and  be  content  until  he  could  solve 
his  difficulty.  If  they  only  wished  to  see  him  happy  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  present  condition  must  be  entirely 
satisfying  to  them.  He  was  also  much  stronger  recently. 

Rose  was  an  unimpeachable  Moravian,  and  she  went 
about  the  work  of  the  choirs  and  the  Church  with  the 
energy  of  her  housekeeping.  "  The  Messiah  "  was  in 
course  of  rehearsal  for  Christmas,  and  engaged  much  of 
her  attention.  She  was  offered  a  solo  part,  but  declined 
it  for  the  office  of  leader  of  the  girls'  chorus.  She  said 
that  she  thought  she  could  be  more  useful  there,  which 
was  another  way  of  saying  that  the  place  enabled  her  to 
multiply  the  force  of  her  musical  training,  which  had 
been  uncommonly  full,  instead  of  barrenly  exhibiting  it. 
Her  devotion  to  the  girls'  chorus  when  she  had  taken  it 
up  was  strenuous.  The  constant  use  of  music  among 
the  Moravians  made  them  apt  pupils,  and  it  was  one  of 
Rose's  pleasures  to  gather  them  about  the  old  organ  in 
the  Sisters'  Choir-house,  and  play  over  Handel's  inspir 
ing  music.  It  spoke  dearly  to  her  of  the  things  which 
she  knew,  and  most  sweetly  of  the  myriad  mysterious 
things  which  she  only  guessed  and  dreamed  ;  and  to 
these  thoughts  the  clear  voices  of  the  girls  made  harmo 
nious  accompaniment. 

She  found  time,  too,  to  interest  herself  in  mission 
work,  and  assisted  in  the  making  up  of  a  box  sent  to 
Greenland  full  of  clothing,  with  a  scanty  provision  of 
cates  and  comfits  tucked  away  in  the  corners.  In  the 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  249 

Sisters'  Choir  there  was  a  missionary  cupboard,  from 
which  colored  representations  of  scenes  in  the  Saviour's 
life  and  certain  tracts  were  added  to  the  box,  for  the 
Greenlanders*  education.  But  the  Christmas  festival 
pressed  too  closely  to  allow  any  work  less  urgent  to 
occupy  her  long.  Rose  had  many  gifts  to  make  for  her 
new  friends,  and  as  presents  of  the  season  were,  by  cus 
tom  and  partly  of  necessity,  usually  the  work  of  the 
giver's  hands,  this  involved  much  labor.  She  knitted 
work-bags,  gauntlets  and  muffettees  ;  for  the  old  women 
she  made  pretty  caps  of  muslin  with  a  close-clipped  bank 
of  black  ribbon  atop  ;  for  the  children  she  prepared 
sweetmeats  and  confections  of  every  sort. 

She  was  obliged  to  duplicate  many  of  her  gifts,  and 
the  gathering  of  pasteboard  alumette  stands,  covered 
with  luminous  paper,  which  sat  on  her  table  Christmas 
eve,  was  a  small  host.  All  the  day  preceding  Christ 
mas  she  spent  gilding  walnuts,  stringing  popped  corn, 
and  making  lace  stockings,  to  be  filled  with  candy  for 
the  tree  which  was  displayed  to  the  children  that  even 
ing  before  the  regular  Christmas  eve  services.  Mr.  Kea- 
tor,  who  had  the  faculty  of  talking  to  children,  told  them 
the  story  of  the  Christ-child,  and  for  the  time  forgot  all 
pains  in  watching  their  simple  glee  as  their  gifts  were 
handed  to  them,  and  they  gazed  in  childish  rapture  on 
the  tree,  brilliantly  alight  with  honey-scented  candles. 
His  sister  was  busiest  among  the  group  that  unloaded 
the  tree  for  the  children,  and  her  nimble  fingers  out 
stripped  the  uneager  motions  of  the  sisters. 

It  was  good  to  see  the  smile  with  which  she  accompanied 
each  gift,  and  as  she  went  beamingly  about  the  burdened 
pine  she  seemed  to  Mr.  Keator  a  spirit  of  happiness 
sent  for  his  solace  and  cheer.  He  did  not  wish  to  absorb 


250  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

all  her  healing  force  ;  he  felt  selfish  as  it  was.  Such 
grace  and  benediction  ought  to  be  for  all  the  world. 
But  as  he  stood  observing  her  he  was  deeply  grateful  for 
his  share  in  it,  and  humbly  wondered  what  he  had  done 
to  merit  it.  His  heart  was  full  of  the  Christmas  peace 
which  harbors  no  thought  less  than  the  largest,  and,  when 
he  rose  to  preach  in  the  church  that  night,  after  the  love- 
feast,  the  people  saw  a  calm  light  in  his  face  not  born  of 
this  world's  meditations. 

He  had  intended  to  speak  to  them  directly  of  the 
event  which  was  to  be  celebrated  on  the  morrow,  but  the 
feeling  at  his  heart  was  too  strong,  and  he  imparted  it  to 
them  in  earnest  phrases  which  reached  his  hearers, 
because  each  word  was  charged  with  its  yearning  to  tes 
tify  of  the  light  which  he  had  found.  "  And  they  mur 
mured  against  him,"  was  his  text.  He  pictured  the  dis 
trust  and  complaining  impatience  of  Christ's  teaching 
during  his  earthly  ministry.  He  said  that  a  like  weak 
ness  possessed  the  restless  souls  of  the  present  who 
could  not  brook  the  slow  justifying  of  God's  purposes, 
who  chafed  under  difficulty  and  disaster,  and  were  not 
able  to  turn  their  eyes  forward  contentedly  to  the 
future,  in  which  all  things  should  be  made  right. 

"  Patience,  I  know,  brethren,  is  a  hard  word.  It  is 
one  of  the  greatest  gifts  of  grace.  To  face  a  barren  life 
with  its  every-day  desolateness,  to  wait  calmly  for  the 
sure  light  and  help,  with  your  present  problem  or  sorrow 
confronting  you  from  hour  to  hour,  is  not  easy.  But 
trust  in  God,  unquenchable  faith  in  the  design  which  you 
cannot  see,  will  make  it  easier.  We  shall  all  waver  in  seek 
ing  them  :  no  one  knows  that  more  sadly  than  your  min 
ister  ;  but  at  length,  even  in  this  life,  your  happiness  will 
come  out  of  your  grief  or  difficulty  ;  the  word  will  be 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  251 

spoken,  the  key  handed  you,  and  in  the  illumination  of 
your  content  the  path  behind  you  will  be  made  plain. 
In  that  light,  how  ungrateful  our  murmurings,  how 
wicked  our  rebellion  !  Let  us  strive  for  that  perfect  sub- 
missiveness  which  shall  finally  be  rewarded  by  the  peace 
that  passeth  all  understanding." 

His  audience  could  not  make  the  personal  application  ; 
they  only  saw  that  his  eloquence  had  from  some  source 
gained  a  higher  note.  Rose  marvelled  at  her  brother's 
eloquence.  She  had  often  heard  him  preach  since  her 
arrival,  but  to-night  he  seemed  to  weave  a  spell  about 
her  ;  she  listened  motionless,  and  when  he  had  done,  re 
leased  herself  from  his  influence  with  a  sigh  of  pleasure. 

As  Mr.  Keator  came  down  the  pulpit  stairs  she 
endeavored  to  catch  his  eye,  and  when  she  had  suc 
ceeded  gave  him  a  look  of  restrained  joy  and  pride.  He 
came  to  her  at  once  and  they  went  out  together.  In  the 
courtyard  without,  among  the  choir-houses,  they  stood 
in  the  snow  watching  the  brethren  and  sisters  emerge 
from  the  church,  each  with  a  lighted  waxen  taper  in  his 
hand,  singing,  "  Hark  !  the  Herald  Angels  Sing,"  to 
Mendelssohn's  music. 

The  candles  illumined  the  snow  in  patches  and  threw 
their  moving  shadows  on  its  glittering  surface.  The 
groups,  dividing  and  making  avenues  of  light  among  the 
gray  old  buildings,  sang  as  they  went  to  their  several 
choir-houses,  and  the  brother  and  sister  heard  the  sound 
fading  and  then  die  quite  away,  save  in  the  Sisters'  House, 
from  within  which  the  clear,  rejoicing  sopranos  were 
borne,  softened  to  their  ears  as  they  stood  listening  in 
the  darkness  : 

"  Hark  !  the  herald  angels  sing, 
Glory  to  the  new  born  king  !  " 


252  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Rose  took  her  brother's  arm  and  they  walked  slowly 
home.  Occasional  candles  in  the  hands  of  the  married 
brethren  went  flickering  down  the  freshly  whitened 
street.  In  the  keen  air  the  footfalls  of  the  two  cut  the 
new  fallen  snow  with  a  sharp,  crunching  sound  which 
went  echoing  down  the  silent  road.  Mr.  Keator  paused 
to  button  his  well-worn  great-coat  about  him.  The 
numerous  charities  and  good  works  of  the  Church,  to 
which  he  loved  to  give  from  his  slender  stipend,  kept 
him  poor,  and  his  own  clothing  was  the  last  thing  which 
he  considered. 

Rose  had  endeavored  to  induce  him  to  buy  a  new 
great-coat  when  they  were  in  Philadelphia,  but  he  had 
gently  refused. 

"  This  does  very  well,"  he  had  said  ;  but  he  had  told 
himself  that  he  could  not  afford  both  the  fresh  house 
hold  decorations  and  the  coat,  and  it  was  not  in  his 
heart  to  deny  her  the  innocent  purchases  she  had  planned. 

As  he  drew  the  garment  more  tightly  about  his  slim 
figure  and  grasped  his  crutch  he  drew  her  arm  closely 
within  his. 

"John,  do  you  often  preach  like  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.     Did  it  help  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  it  must  have  helped  others.  That  is  the 
kind  of  sermon,  I  fancy,  which  reaches  every  one.  Did 
you  see  old  Sister  Zelda  lean  over  and  shake  hands  with 
me  at  the  end  ?  She  wanted  me  to  thank  you  for  it.  It 
seemed  to  speak  to  every-day  needs.  Where  did  you 
learn  so  much  about  them,  brother  ?  Not  in  your  musty 
library  ? " 

"  No,  in  my  musty  heart.  It  has  not  grown  so  old  yet 
that  it  has  not  some  human  weaknesses  of  its  own." 

"  Was  it  a  sermon  of  experience  ?  " 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  253 

"  Did  you  detect  the  personal  cast  ?  " 

She  glanced  at  him  curiously  in  the  darkness. 

"  Poor  Joha  !  You  have  not  passed  through  all  the 
struggles  that  you  pictured  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  more  or  less  autobiography.  And 
do  you  know,  Rose,  what  the  light  was  that  came  to  teach 
me  the  sin  of  murmuring  and  brought  me  content  ? " 

"  How  can  I  guess  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  little  maid  beside  me,  dear.  You  can't 
imagine  how  rebellious  I  was  before  you  came." 

"  You  overrate  her  ;  but  I  don't  understand,  brother." 

Mr.  Keator  was  silent  a  moment.  The  old  watchman 
paced  slowly  by  them  with  his  staff  and  lantern,  crying, 
as  he  bade  them  a  merry  Christmas  : 

"  Hear,  brethren,  hear  ! 

The  hour  of  nine  is  come  ! 
Keep  pure  each  heart, 

And  chasten  every  home  !  " 

Rose  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  brother's  face  as  the 
lantern's  rays  smote  it.  Memory  had  seized  upon  him, 
and  the  anguished  look  upon  his  narrow-drawn  visage 
almost  frightened  her. 

"  Why,  John,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  are  you  thinking 
of  ?  What  troubles  you  ? " 

"  Nothing  in  the  present,  dear  ;  something  that  is 
quite  past,  I  hope." 

"  Don't  tell  me  unless  you  wish." 

They  were  passing  a  window  out  of  which  the  light  of  a 
thousand  fireflies  seemed  to  burn  and  twinkle.  A  gather 
ing  of  children  romped  about  a  shining  tree,  laden  with 
bon-bons  and  bright-colored  balls,  stars  and  flags, 
golden  walnuts,  tissue  baskets  and  some  of  Rose's  own 
lace  stockings  rilled  with  candy.  At  one  side  was  a 


254  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

model  of  Herrnhut,  the  mother  Moravian  settlement,  in 
moss  and  pasteboard  ;  an  avenue  of  lime-trees  joined 
it  with  Bertholdsdorf,  on  the  left,  and  lying  under  the 
same  mossy  mountain.  Near  the  window  was  a  miniature 
Bethlehem  with  a  copious  heaven  of  stars,  amid  which  the 
angels  swam  in  a  glow  of  light.  Below  were  the  shep 
herds,  the  little  white  houses,  and  in  the  centre  the  inn 
and  the  open  manger,  holding  the  Christ-child.  Over 
all,  in  an  illumined  semi-circle,  one  read  the  legend  : 
"  Unto  you  a  child  is  born  ;  unto  you  a  son  is  given." 
It  was  very  simple  art,  but  the  mother  sat  in  the  midst  of 
these  joyous  tableaux  touching  the  harpsichord  softly 
and  glancing  over  her  shoulder  at  her  children's  hap 
piness,  and  the  pretty  scene  was  such  a  picture  of  love 
and  peace  as  any  beholder  must  have  been  gladder  for. 
Mr.  Keator  turned  away  with  an  unspoken  joy  in  his 
heart,  and  Rose  fancied  she  saw  a  new  intelligence 
gleaming  from  his  eyes  as  if  he  had  just  given  a  mes 
senger  grateful  audience. 

"  No,  Rose,"  he  said,  as  they  walked  on  ;  "I  want  to 
tell  you.  With  the  air  full  of  the  Christmas  message, 
how  should  I  be  at  rest  concealing  it  ?  That  is  what 
gives  the  confessional  its  hold,"  he  mused.  "  Yes,  yes, 
the  feeling  that  somehow  avowal  shifts  a  share  of  the 
wrong  by  making  it  so  far  public,  the  sense  that  in  away 
forgiveness  is  begun,  the  sight  of  a  visible  pardoner 
standing  as  vicar  to  the  unseeable  All-pardoner — yes, 
yes,  all  that  has  comfort  for  infirm  human  nature.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  I  feel  that  to-night.  Such  a  constant 
bustle  goes  on  in  my  head.  It's  impossible  to  be  sure 
that  even  now  I  have  found  the  end.  It  seems  so — these 
Christmas  sights  and  sounds — but  1  don't  know,  I  want 
to  get  it  before  myself." 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  255 

They  were  in  front  of  their  door,  and  he  pushed  her 
gently  in  while  he  continued, 

"  And  yet  I  hope  that  it  is  not  only  that  poor,  selfish 
purpose.  I  feel  that  I  owe  it  to  you.  For  it  is  you, 
Rose,  who  brought  the  light.  I  have  told  you  that." 

Rose  silently  let  him  take  her  shawl  and  outer  cap, 
and  went  with  him  into  the  library.  She  seated  herself 
upon  the  hassock  at  his  feet,  while  he  took  his  usual 
chair.  He  did  not  light  a  candle,  but  stirred  the  fading 
embers,  and  threw  fresh  wood  on  the  andirons.  For 
some  moments  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  giving  rein 
to  his  melancholy  memory  ;  then  he  took  one  of  her 
hands  in  his  and  began  his  story  in  a  low  voice. 

Rose  looked  for  a  time  into  the  fire  when  he  had  done, 
and  when  she  spoke  at  length  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  vagrant  flames.  She  leaned  an  arm  upon  his 
knee. 

"  Poor  John  !  "  she  exclaimed,  softly.  Then  of  a 
sudden,  "  You  never  could  abuse  such  confidence.  What 
made  you  fear  that  you  could  ? " 

"  Ah,  did  I  fancy  that  I  could  propose  to  abandon  my 
ministry  for  love  of  her  ?  After  that  what  may  not  hap 
pen  ?  I  seem  to  be  just  forming  acquaintance  with 
myself,  to  be  treading  fresh  ground.  I  don't  know  when 
I  may  sink  through." 

"  You  mean  that  you  didn't  ;  that  is  over  now,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  trust  so,"  he  returned,  not  quite  easily,  as 
he  leaned  a  little  forward  and  rubbed  his  forefinger  and 
thumb  together  thoughtfully. 

Both  were  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  his  arm  stole 
about  her  where  she  sat.  Rose  broke  the  stillness  at 
last  with, 


256  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  John,  do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  lie  awake 
Christmas  eve  waiting  for  Santa  Claus,  and  how  you 
would  come  in  late,  after  your  studies,  to  kiss  me  and 
see  that  I  was  sleeping  well  ?  You  know  I  used  to  pre 
tend  to  be  asleep,  and  the  next  morning  when  I  had 
emptied  the  stocking  you  had  filled  I  would  confess. 
Dear  old  John,  how  I  used  to  deceive  you  !  " 

"  Ah,  those  were  sweet  times  !  " 

"  But  not  better  than  to-day — do  you  think  so,  John  ? " 

"  No,  no  !  God  is  good.  Great  joy  comes  with  our 
added  pains." 

"  You  would  not  have  had  it  all  otherwise,  John. 
Look  back.  You  would  not  have  denied  yourself  the 
privilege  of  loving  her  if  you  could." 

"  Understanding  what  was  to  follow  ?  " 

"  Yes,  even  understanding  what  was  to  follow." 

He  drew  his  bushy  eyebrows  together. 

"  No,  surely  no.  Not  to  have  known  her — that  would 
have  been  the  greatest  calamity." 

"  It  is  very  hard  that  you  can  not  marry  her,"  she 
exclaimed,  abruptly  taking  a  look  at  the  matter  from  the 
other  side. 

"  Pray,  don't  consider  it  in  that  way.  I  am  sufficiently 
inclined  to  rebel  as  it  is." 

"  Dear  brother,  don't  mistake  me.  It  is  hard,  but  you 
are  taking  the  only  right  way.  I  praise  your  courage  in 
giving  yourself  the  temptation.  I  feel  its  difficulty. 
But  you  know — I  ought  not  even  to  speak  of  it  as  a 
possibility — you  know  how  I  should  despise  you  if  you 
should  yield." 

Her  hard  words  cheered  him. 

"  Not  a  thousandth  so  much  as  I  should  despise 
myself.  And  yet  I  am  living  upon  the  edge  of  it  every 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  257 

day.  Don't  talk  of  it  as  impossible.  It  is  its  very  pos 
sibility  that  gives  it  value  as  a  trial." 

"  It  is  a  severe  trial." 

He  stroked  her  golden  hair  upon  which  the  fire-light 
played. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  sister.  It  is  enough  for  one  to 
bear  it.  You  speak  of  my  courage.  It  was  the  poor 
courage  of  the  moment.  If  I  had  fancied  the  load  which 
it  would  bring  with  it,  which  I  carry  about  with  me  every 
day — even  now,  since  you  have  come,  since  I  have  won 
comparative  peace,  my  most  shameless  self-flattery  will 
not  let  me  believe  I  should  have  found  the  strength." 

Rose  fell  into  a  deep  study,  gazing  at  the  fire.  She 
took  her  arm  from  his  knee,  and  setting  her  elbows  upon 
her  lap  supported  her  cheeks  between  her  hands. 

"  She  was  in  love  with  some  one  else,"  said  she,  sud 
denly. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ? " 

"  Because  if  she  had  not  been  she  would  have  done 
more  than  esteem  you.  She  would  have  loved  you  as 
you  loved  her,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  conviction. 

She  clasped  her  hands  about  her  knee,  and  sat  staring 
into  the  fire,  allowing  the  weight  of  this  assurance  to 
reach  her  brother.  She  had  at  least  secured  his  silence 
for  a  few  moments. 

"  I  can't  think  so  well  of  myself  as  that."  he  said. 

"  You  need  not,  brother  ;  only  think  of  him.  Who 
was  he  ?  Didn't  you  speak  of  a  young  Englishman —  ? " 

"  Mr.  March  ?  There  was  certainly — "  began  Mr. 
Keator. 

"  Mr.  March,  that  is  it,"  cried  Rose.  "  Where  was 
he  ?  Where  did  he  stay  while  he  was  here  ?  " 

"  At  Dr.  Van  Cleef's,"  answered  the  minister. 


258  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Of  course.  And  there  he  met  Miss  Van  Cleef,  and 
saw  her  every  day,  and " 

"  Don't,  don't,  Rose  !  Don't  make  me  think  that.  I 
should  be  grieved  to  think  that.  Remember,  I  haven't 
thoroughly  conquered  even  yet." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,  brother.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you. 
And  yet  it  was  the  natural  conclusion.  He  was  in  love 
with  her,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

"  No — no,  no  !  I  hope  I  can  say  truthfully  now  that  it 
was  not  so.  At  one  time  it  was  my  selfish  fear — as  if,  if 
I  loved  her,  I  should  not  wish  that  she  should  be  happy 
in  her  own  way — but  no,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  no,  I  think 
not." 

"  Don't  you  mean  that  you  wish  to  think  not  ?  What 
reason  have  you  for  thinking  that  it  is  not  so  ? " 

Rose  turned  her  face  up  toward  his,  earnestly. 

"  You  don't  ask  easy  questions,  Rose  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  assented,  gently. 

"  And  the  answer  to  this  one  would  take  a  long  time. 
Aren't  you  tired  and  sleepy  after  your  work  about  the 
tree  ? " 

"  John  ! "  she  exclaimed,  reproachfully.  "  Do  you 
think  I  shall  ever  be  tired  when  I  can  do  anything  for 
you  ? " 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  in  telling  her  the 
long  history  of  his  passion  for  Constance  he  should  have 
omitted  all  mention  of  the  barrier  to  his  union  with  her. 
He  had  said  that,  complying  with  her  father's  wish, 
she  had  offered  to  yield  to  his  desire  and  marry  him. 
She  was,  however,  not  a  member  of  the  Church,  and 
in  other  ways,  not  stated,  would  not  prove  acceptable  to 
the  Conference.  This  had  been  the  temptation  before 
which  he  had  fallen.  To  have  spoken  of  March,  of  his 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  259 

warning  to  Constance,  and  the  final  reproof  in  the  church 
would  have  involved  a  certain  reflection  upon  Constance, 
and  especially  would  have  put  his  own  conduct  in  a  light 
which  he  feared  would  win  her  praise  and  pity — two 
things  from  which  he  modestly  shrank.  In  telling  the 
story  now  he  put  the  worst  face  he  could  conjure  upon 
his  acts,  but  as  he  would  not  depart  from  the  truth, 
Rose's  murmurs  of  admiration  interrupted  him. 

"  It  was  a  bitter  temptation,"  he  concluded.  "  And 
when  she  was  good  enough  to  say  that  there  might  be 
worse  lots  than  to  be  my  wife — 

"  Worse  lots  !  "  broke  in  Rose,  with  emphasis.  "  I 
should  hope  so." 

"  Nay,  was  it  in  any  way  a  high  lot  ?  Remember  her 
breeding,  her  education.  Looking  at  it  superficially,  dear, 
what  was  there  to  tempt  her,  and  less — ah,  much  less,  if 
she  looked  beneath  ?  This  is  not  a  large  place,  and  she  was 
born  for  the  city.  I  used  always  to  see  that  in  the  midst  of 
the  blind  hope  that  hoped  against  all  these  facts.  A 
clergyman  upon  a  small  salary,  in  a  small  village — the 
home  of  a  people  with  whose  faith  and  life  she  had  no 
sympathy  !  What  was  there  in  that  prospect  to  lead  her 
to  forsake  the  assured  prosperity  and  brilliancy  of  the 
life  I  knew  she  had  planned  for  herself  ?  " 

"  You  forget  that  you  were  that  clergyman,"  said 
Rose,  with  the  softest  suggestion  of  a  smile. 

"  Ah,  no  !  That  is  what  I  remember — a  cripple,  a 
man  of  meagre  parts " 

She  clapped  her  hand  over  his  mouth  caressingly. 

"  Hush,  hush  !  you  shall  not  slander  yourself  in  that 
way.  She  ought  to  feel  glad  and  honored  to  marry  such 
a  man  ;  and  some  day,  if  she  is  half  so  sensible  as  you 
think  her,  and  is  not  in  love  with  Mr.  March,  she  would 


260  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

be  if — ah,  John,  isn't  it  dreadful !  You  can't  do  it,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  you.  But  it's  hard.  What  could  be 
worse  !  Let  me  help  you  bear  it.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  I  feel  for  you.  But,  oh,  John,  never,  never  yield  !  " 

"  I  ought  to  marry  at  once.  The  elders  wish  it.  My 
people  would  be  glad.  It  is  the  one  thing  that  would 
put  the  wicked  lure  forever  behind  me." 

"  No,  John  ;  don't  you  see  that  that  would  be  shirking, 
not  to  speak  of  the  crime  you  would  commit  against  the 
poor  woman  whom  you  married,  not  only  without  loving 
her,  but  loving  another  !  You  have  accepted  the  tempta 
tion.  You  must  bear  all  that  it  brings." 

"  I  know  it,  Rose,  I  know  it.  I  trust  I  do  not  seek  to 
shun  any  part  of  my  duty.  It  is  only  when  the  horror  of 
the  possibility — sometimes  it  has  seemed  hideously  pos 
sible — comes  over  me,  that  I  think  of  such  expedients." 

"  Do  not  dream  of  them  !  It  would  be  wrong  to 
yourself,  a  wrong,  above  all,  to  her  generosity.  The 
worst  of  it  is  over  now,  and  you  will  face  it  to  the  end." 

"Nay,  you  had  not  thought  that  I  would  shuffle  with 
it  ? "  he  asked,  seriously,  as  his  brow  knitted  in  a  man 
ner  rare  with  him. 

"  Surely  you  know  my  trust  in  you.  How  can  you 
think  it  ?  It  is  not  you  I  fear.  It  is  she." 

"  In  what  way,  dear  ?  "  he  asked,  with  an  instant  return 
of  his  gentle  manner.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  vaunt  my  new 
found  strength,  but  I  think  you  need  not  be  troubled  for 
either  of  us.  As  long  as  she  has  faith  in  me,  and  with  you 
near  me,  dear,  nothing  can  shake  me.  I  feel  that  now," 
he  said,  rising  while  she  gave  him  his  crutch. 

The  fire  was  burned  low  ;  it  was  almost  dark  in  the 
room.  They  heard  the  watchman  crying  his  midnight 
couplet  to  the  vacant  street. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  261 

"  I  shall  have  torture  to  suffer  yet,"  he  went  on.  "  But 
I  shall  be  given  endurance.  To-night  has  yielded  me 
surety  of  that.  A  new  peace  comes  over  me.  This  is  the 
first  Christmas  we  have  spent  together  in  a  long  time, 
sister.  Let  us  get  all  possible  happiness  out  of  it."  He 
limped  to  the  door.  "  My  megrims  shan't  harass  this 
little  maid's  brains  so  much  again.  Good-night,"  he 
whispered,  as  he  kissed  her. 

The  sound  of  trumpets  from  the  church-tower,  greeting 
the  Christmas  morning,  leaped  upon  the  still  air. 

"  Ah,  how  dare  any  one  be  foreboding  with  that  sound 
in  his  ears  !  "  exclaimed  Rose. 

"  Yes,  dear,  it  bears  a  promise — the  Christmas  promise. 
But  it  is  for  us  to  fulfil  it  in  our  hearts.  May  God  give 
us  strength  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

CONSTANCE  told  her  aunt  the  whole  story.  If  she 
could  have  announced  her  engagement  to  Mr.  March, 
she  would  have  stated  that  fact  alone  and  left  Mrs. 
Echols's  imagination  to  fill  up  the  blanks.  But  as  the 
matter  stood  it  was  very  far  from  easy  to  say  in  a  few 
words  what  she  meant,  or  how  the  position  in  which  she 
found  herself  had  become  possible.  Certainly  the  vocab 
ulary  of  society  did  not  furnish  her  with  a  phrase  which 
sufficiently  declared  her  present  relation  to  March.  She 
put  it  before  her  aunt  as  well  as  she  could  ;  and  this  was 
an  effective  way  of  placing  her  position  lucidly  before 
herself.  She  began  to  feel  how  the  importance  to  her  of 
Mr.  Keator's  action  had  deepened  within  the  few  hours 
which  had  elapsed  since  March's  proposal. 

The  cost  of  the  failure  of  the  minister — supposing  it 
possible — had  been  suddenly  magnified.  It  was  not  only 
its  meaning  for  her.  Another  was  involved  now.  She 
found  herself  exaggerating,  in  the  light  of  this  percep 
tion,  her  sense  of  the  weakness  of  human  nature  in 
opposition  to  her  knowledge  of  Mr.  Keator.  But  her 
abiding  trust  in  him  consoled  the  rare  moments  in  which 
she  found  it  possible  to  imagine  ill  of  him. 

It  was  after  all  her  own  duty  toward  him  which  really 
troubled  her.  The  impossible  possibility  of  a  lapse  on 
his  part  was  a  thing  about  which  she  might  safely  let  her 
fancy  play.  But  she  remembered  that  her  compact  with 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  263 

Mr.  Keator  imposed  its  obligations  upon  her  as  well  as 
upon  him,  and  this  brought  its  immediate  difficulties.  It 
was  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  March  had  spoken, 
and  she  had  already  told  her  story.  Mrs.  Echols,  in  a 
dressing-sack,  was  seated  before  her  mirror  slowly  draw 
ing  a  comb  through  her  thin  hair. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,"  she  said,  as  Constance 
entered. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  returned  Constance,  as  she  came 
toward  her.  "  I  need  some  one  to  do  a  great  deal  of 
thinking  for  me."  She  stood  behind  her  aunt's  chair  and 
looked  musingly  into  the  mirror  over  her  head.  "  Let 
me  do  that,"  she  said,  at  length. 

This  was  a  service  that  she  had  often  rendered  Mrs. 
Echols,  and  she  worked  silently  for  some  time.  The 
task  had  a  kind  of  fascination  to  her.  She  remembered  as 
a  child  climbing  up  and  begging  to  be  allowed  to  comb 
her  mother's  hair.  She  began  with  long,  even  sweeps, 
but  her  touch  was  less  soft  and  certain  than  usual. 

"  Is  it  that  I  am  tired  after  the  theatricals,  Constance, 
or  are  you  ?  It's  not  as  soothing  to-night." 

"  No,  aunt  ?  "  asked  her  niece,  quietly,  and  for  a  time 
was  more  careful. 

But  she  absently  fell  again  into  an  irregular,  unskilled 
motion. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  " 

With  the  womanly  respect  for  half  expressions,  Con 
stance  did  not  affect  to  misunderstand. 

"  I've  been  thinking  whether  I  am  right  in  letting  it  go 
on." 

Mrs.  Echols  reflected  a  moment. 

"  Is  it  Mr.  Keator  ?  "  she  asked.  The  girl  continued 
combing  as  she  paused.  "  Is  it  because ? " 


264  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

She  did  not  complete  her  thought. 

"  Yes,  aunt.  I  would  not  fail  in  the  slightest  appear 
ance  toward  him,"  exclaimed  Constance,  relying  upon 
her  hearer's  intelligence.  "  You  see,  the  very  fact  that 
the  engagement  was  not  entered  into  to  be  fulfilled,  and 
— and  all  the  circumstances  make  me  feel  that  it  ought 
to  be  kept  especially  sacred." 

"  I  didn't  like  to  say  it  when  you  told  me,  but  doesn't 
it  seem  to  you  to  have  been  a  little — ill-advised,  shall  we 
say? " 

Constance  drew  the  comb  quickly. 

"  As  the  world  looks  at  such  things,  perhaps.  But  I 
could  not  refuse  him.  My  father's  wish  seemed  to  com 
mand  me,  since  it  could  not  be  carried  out,  to  give  him 
at  least  this  poor  substitute.  I  can't  explain  it,  but  I  did 
it,  and  I  hope  I'm  not  base  enough  to  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  your  father's  desire,"  said  Mrs. 
Echols,  slowly,  "  and  you  must  remember,  I  don't  know 
Mr.  Keator.  Things  are  often  right  with  all  the  sur 
roundings  which  appear  doubtful  at  a  little  distance.  I 
only  meant  that  I  should  not  have  counselled  you  to  do 
it." 

Constance  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  could  not 
argue  for  her  act.  Sacrifice  is,  of  course,  unreasonable 
and  inexpedient,  being  more  likely  to  help  some  one  else 
than  one's  self.  That  it  is  unjustifiable  on  practical 
grounds,  is  a  grievous  defect  if  one  must  defend  it  by 
logic.  Constance  perceived  this,  but  she  was  not  sorry 
for  it.  Perhaps  she  felt  that  an  act  was  not  necessarily 
the  worse  for  shocking  the  laws  of  expediency. 

But  her  reflections  drew  her  back  again  to  the  thought 
of  her  duty  in  the  position  which  this  act  had  brought 
about. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  265 

"  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  go  away  ? "  she  asked, 
faintly,  at  length. 

"  My  dear  girl !  "  exclaimed  her  aunt,  turning  about. 
"  How  could  we  spare  you  ?  Send  him  !  " 

"Remember  his  work.  There  is  nothing  to  keep  me 
— that  is,  nothing  in  that  sense.  Of  course,  it  would 
grieve  me  to  leave  you,  but — one's  betrothal  must  always 
change  the  conditions  of  one's  life,  I  suppose.  And  I 
couldn't  help  him  any  longer  at  Gerrit,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Echols  leaned  her  elbow"  upon  the  chair-back  and 
studied  the  girl's  face.  There  was  a  wistful  look  upon  it, 
but  the  energy  of  her  determination  was  also  read 
able. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said,  taking  her  hand  and 
stroking  it.  "  You  must  do  what  you  think  best.  Only 
remember,  you  will  leave  us  all  mourning." 

"  It  is  you  I  take  into  account  first.  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  leave  you." 

"  You  won't  find  it  easy  to  persuade  him." 

"  I  shan't  consult  him  too  much,"  declared  she,  with  a 
touch  of  her  old  pride.  "  It's  not  as  if  we  were  en 
gaged." 

But  the  love  in  her  heart  was  deeper  than  the  independ 
ence  of  this  expression  may  indicate,  and  she  woke  next 
morning  wondering  what  it  was  that  made  her  so  happy. 
Her  pulses  bounded  as  she  remembered  why,  and  lying 
there  all  alone  she  faintly  blushed.  She.  rose  and  went 
absently  about  the  house.  No  one  else  was  awake,  and 
she  had  that  intense  feeling  of  loneliness  which  the  night 
itself  does  not  bring  ;  but  for  once  it  was  a  merry  loneli 
ness.  She  sang  softly  to  herself  as  she  opened  the  heavy 
shutters  and  watched  the  light  stream  eagerly  into  the 
rooms  from  which  it  had  been  barred. 


266  A   VICl^ORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  It  is  going  to  be  fair,"  she  said  to  herself,  looking 
out  at  the  sun  brightening  the  dewy  tree-tops  and  driv 
ing  the  mountain  mist  before  him. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  experience  she  allowed  herself 
a  superstition — an  extremely  harmless  one. 

"  It  is  a  good  omen,"  she  whispered  to  herself. 

She  marvelled,  as  she  walked  the  portico,  at  the  new, 
rare  pleasure  she  found  in  everything  that  met  her 
eye.  The  liveliness  of  her  observation,  the  agile  move 
ment  of  her  fancy,  were  parts  of  an  altogether  foreign 
delight.  When  had  she  seen  so  much  before  ?  Then  she 
blushed  as  she  had  blushed  when  she  awoke.  When  had 
she  felt  so  much  before  ?  She  wondered  how  it  could 
be  that  this  feeling  which  was  so  rich,  so  precious,  so 
magical  now  that  it  came,  could  have  lain  so  long  unwel- 
comed  in  her  bosom.  For  it  was  not  the  birth  of  a 
moment.  She  knew  that.  It  had  grown  up  through  a 
long  time  and  made  its  home  in  her  breast  silently,  with 
out  giving  a  hint.  It  was  an  absurd  vexation  that  she 
should  not  have  known  ;  it  seemed  to  impugn  her  under 
standing  of  herself,  she  reflected,  with  a  humorous 
smile. 

She  went  down  into  the  garden  and  wandered  among 
the  scrupulously-kept  beds.  The  trees  had  almost  lost 
their  foliage  ;  only  the  hardiest  flowers  remained.  She 
glanced  affectionately  at  the  peach  tree  which  March  had 
climbed  for  her.  It  had  scarcely  a  leaf,  but  the  sunlight 
was  falling  warmly  on  it  and  making  diamonds  out  of  the 
heavy  dew,  which,  in  this  climate,  the  October  night  had 
not  turned  to  frost.  Her  eyes  roved  about  the  garden, 
whose  trim  parterres  were  so  many  reminders  of  the 
dear  garden  in  Judea.  And  this  drew  her  thought  to 
her  father.  She  wondered  whether  he  would  approve. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  267 

She  recalled  his  words  with  a  gently  reproachful 
pain  : 

"  Remember,  that  I  thought  of  it;  that  is  what  I  should 
like  to  leave  with  you  :  that  I  thought  of  it." 

These  words  had  been  a  command  to  her.  She  could 
not  chide  herself  for  remissness  in  attempting  to  accom 
plish  his  desire.  But  it  had  not  been  possible,  and  now 
was  not  this  a  becoming  re-reading  of  his  wish  ?  He 
had  liked  Mr.  March.  Even  without  knowledge  of 
the  great  secret  kindness  he  had  done  him,  would  he  not 
sanction  this  disposition  of  her  life  ?  She  was  glad  to 
be  able  to  think  so.  Without  this  faith  in  his  approval 
she  felt  that  she  could  not  have  gone  on.  In  the  garden 
she  plucked  a  bunch  of  the  late  flowers  with  the  autumn 
pallor  upon  them  and  took  them  into  the  house.  Within, 
among  a  collection  of  articles  brought  from  use  at  the 
theatrical  performance,  her  eye  fell  upon  Mrs.  Bartlett's 
vase.  She  did  not  analyze  the  emotion  which  led  her  to 
take  it  from  its  covering  and  put  it  upon  the  table,  nor 
inquire  reasons  for  her  gratitude  to  the  mistake  which 
had  brought  it  here  ;  and  taking  the  flowers  which  she 
had  gathered,  she  decorated  the  vase  for  the  table  with 
a  thoughtful  smile. 

She  did  her  usual  little  tasks  about  the  house  after 
breakfast  in  a  soft  agitation  of  happiness.  She  had 
never  felt  any  sensation  at  all  similar.  Was  it  possible, 
she  asked  herself,  that  she  had  surrendered  so  completely 
as  that?  It  both  abashed  and  pleased  her.  As  a  young 
girl  one  of  her  private  words  to  herself  had  been  that  she 
should  never  go  so  far  in  a  matter  like  this  as  certain  of 
her  acquaintance.  She  had  always  cherished  her  reserves, 
and  it  alarmed  her  at  the  moment  to  think  that  any  one 
should  be  privileged  to  overcome  them.  It  was  at  least 


268  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

possible,  she  reflected,  to  conceal  the  considerableness  of 
the  conquest.  Out  of  her  hundred  guns  she  would 
give  up  sixty,  say.  That  was  sufficiently  generous. 

In  feminine  assemblages  she  had  often  heard  it  astutely 
argued  that  women  gave  too  much,  and  had  listened  to 
condemnations  of  that  form  of  unwisdom  consisting  in 
allowing  a  man  to  know  how  dear  a  woman  holds  him. 
It  was,  however,  no  part  of  this  feminine  logic,  which 
seemed  to  her  to  imply  merely  the  retention  of  a  path 
for  retreat  that  withheld  her.  She  excused  the  sweet 
disturbance  that  went  on  in  her  breast  during  the  morn 
ing  by  the  reflection  that  this  was  the  first  occasion  on 
which  she  had  been  offered  the  sensation  of  awaiting  a 
lover's  call.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  she  rejoiced  with  a 
kind  of  recklessness  in  throwing  open  her  heart  to  the 
delicious  tumult  that  assailed  it.  In  its  secure  privacy 
she  devoted  herself  to  him  with  the  unreserve  of  a  girl's 
first  passion.  She  simply  shrank  from  admitting  the 
world  to  her  secret,  and  especially  from  admitting  him. 

However,  she  met  March  when  he  came  cantering  up 
to  the  door  in  the  early  afternoon,  as  she  would  have 
wished  to  meet  him — which  is  saying  much.  When,  after 
a  time,  they  issued  from  the  grounds  together  on  horse 
back,  they  went  galloping  away  into  a  realization  of  the 
mythical  Indian  summer.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  nearly  per 
fect  day — a  condescension  of  the  Autumn,  which  obviously 
had  the  right  to  be  cold.  The  sun  shone  upon  the 
vivid  green  of  the  winter  wheat.  It  fell  also  upon  unnum 
bered  acres  of  corn  stacked  like  battalions  of  toy  soldiers 
in  rows,  which  recent  wind-storms  had  toppled  to  the 
South,  giving  them  the  appearance  of  being  on  their 
march  to  that  salubrious  region. 

March's  attention   to  Constance's  wants  was  almost 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  269 

imaginative.  He  had,  of  course,  always  been  careful  of 
them,  but  he  enjoyed  using  his  new  rights  and  was  per 
petually  sending  his  wits  on  excursions  to  find  something 
to  do  for  her.  It  was  true  that  many  of  the  things  which 
he  found  to  do  were  perfectly  useless,  but  Constance 
did  not  like  them  the  less  for  that.  On  the  whole,  March 
made  quite  as  graceful  a  lover  as  it  is  given  to  the  usual 
man  to  be,  and  their  common  sense  of  humor  rescued  the 
situation  from  that  abyss  of  absurdity  upon  the  verge 
of  which,  in  its  least  fortunate  moments,  it  is  apt  to 
hover. 

"  What  an  associative  thing  a  perfume  is  !  "  exclaimed 
Constance,  as  they  passed  a  field  from  which  a  peculiarly 
sweet  odor  arose.  "  The  odor  of  wild  grape  connects 
me  always  with  some  of  the  pleasantest  moments  of  my 
life." 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  No,  that  was  before  I  met  you.  You  mustn't  think  I 
didn't  sometimes  have  happy  moments  before  that." 

March  laughed. 

"  You  can't  have  had  too  many,"  he  said,  "  unless  they 
are  connected  with  another  man." 

She  shook  her  head  smilingly. 

"  There  never  was  another." 

"  You  forget  Mr.  Keator,"  returned  March,  half  seri 
ously. 

"  Oh,"  said  Constance,  "  I  am  engaged  to  him." 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  mocl$  coquetry,  and  a  dancing 
light  shone  in  her  eyes  as  he  frowned  faintly.  She  gave 
a  little  laugh. 

"  Did  you  think  you  knew  some  one  else  to  whom  I 
stand  in  the  same  relation,"  she  asked,  with  her  smile 
dying  wistfully  in  her  eyes. 


270  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

He  gave  back  her  glance  with  a  smile  of  measureless 
love  and  indulgence. 

Nothing  to-day  was  without  its  poetry  to  them,  and 
their  sharpened  vision  often  saw  it  in  the  most  unprom 
ising  objects. 

Constance  said  she  had  always  endowed  trees  with 
character.  Each  represented  a  sort  of  personality  to 
her.  The  oak  was  the  kindly  father  ;  the  elm,  the  lithe, 
graceful  daughter,  and  the  maple,  with  its  early  foliage 
and  swift,  bloody  dismantling,  the  prodigal  son.  She 
asked  him  to  observe  how  the  pines  were  constantly  lift 
ing  their  eyes  and  shrugging  their  shoulders. 

"  '  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  they  seem  to  say,"  she  declared. 

March  found  the  perfect  familiarity  of  their  intercourse 
the  most  delightful  thing  he  had  ever  known.  He  had 
been  curious  about  the  workings  of  this  rare  mind  from 
their  first  meeting,  and  if  he  compared  what  he  knew  to 
what  he  did  not  know,  he  could  not  count  himself  much 
acquainted  with  it.  Now  it  was  seemingly  wide  open  to 
him,  and  he  wandered  with  a  kind  of  rapture  through 
its  spacious,  richly-furnished  apartments.  If  it  had 
depended  upon  him  the  ride  would  never  have  come  to 
an  end,  but  Constance,  who  we  know  had  schooled  her 
self,  gently  suggested  that  they  turn,  and  they  were 
presently  galloping  homeward. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  she  said,  without  preface,  as  the 
horses  went  at  a  walk  up  a  hill,  "  that  I  am  going  away." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  New  York  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  aunt." 

"  Not  now?" 

"  Presently." 

"  You  can't  imagine  how  hard  that  is  on  me,"  he  said, 
quietly. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  271 

"  I'm  not  bound  to  flatter  myself  in  that  way,  am  I  ? " 
returned  she,  with  a  smile  that  charmed  him,  despite  the 
agitation  of  his  thoughts. 

"  You  are  not  bound  to  flatter  me  by  considering  my 
feelings  at  all,"  he  said,  gently,  "  but  I  hope  you  will." 

"  Surely.     There  are  other  considerations,  however." 

Her  face  was  a  little  troubled. 

"  My  dear  girl,  pray  don't  let  me  interfere  with  them. 
You  know  I  believe  in  you  always,  whatever  you  do.  I'm 
sure  you  have  the  best  reasons." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  have,"  answered  Constance,  thought 
fully. 

"  I  shan't  ask  what  they  are." 

"  If  you  won't,  please.  They  are  excellent,  as  you  say, 
but  if  you  will  trust  me  I  won't  repeat  them.  I  can  tell 
you  though,  that  I  have  wanted  to  see  New  York  again 
ever  since  I  teft  it.  Aunt  Cynthia  asked  me  to  come 
when  we  left  Judea  together,  and  I  have  never  ceased  to 
include  it  among  my  plans." 

"  You  can't  go  at  some  other  time  ?  You've  no  idea 
how  precious  these  first  days  are  to  me." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  have  !  You  must  remember  that  I  have  a 
little  measure  of  my  own,"  she  exclaimed,  impulsively. 
"  But  I  shan't  go  for  a  fortnight  yet,"  she  added. 

She  gave  him  a  look  in  which  she  allowed  him  to  read 
something  of  her  love,  and  her  great  pain  in  troubling 
him. 

They  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  March 
gave  his  horse  a  thoughtful  cut  with  his  whip.  They 
galloped  on  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  and  then  as  the 
animals  fell  into  a  walk  again  at  the  foot  of  another  hill, 

"  Constance,  dear,"  said    March,  abruptly,  "  it's   not 
Mr.  Keator,  is  it  ?  " 
18 


272  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT, 

It  came  with  overwhelming  suddenness,  and  she  was 
not  able  to  restrain  her  quick  blush,  nor  make  the  defence 
she  had  arranged. 

"  How  Mr.  Keator  ?"  she  asked,  weakly. 

"  I  mean  you  are  not  going  from  any  fancied  duty  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  fancied  duty,"  returned 
she,  difficultly.  After  a  pause,  she  added,  with  a  helpless 
gesture,  "  I'm  going  because  I  think  I  ought." 

"  Then  you  are  obeying  an  obligation  of  conscience, 
and  it  is  to  Mr.  Keator,  since  there  is  no  one  else.  I 
don't  ask  you  not  to  do  it.  You  probably  know  best. 
But  1  entreat  you  to  think  well  of  it." 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you  I  did  not  want  to  do  it.  They  are 
all  so  kind  to  me." 

She  hesitated.  For  the  hundredth  time  that  day  she 
was  struck  by  the  incongruity,  the  anomalousness  of  their 
situation.  She  wished  to  go  on  and  add  that  it  was  a 
grievous  thing  to  her  to  be  obliged  to  go  away  from  him, 
but  she  could  not  frame  the  statement  in  any  language 
that  seemed  becoming.  She  could  not  have  said  all  that 
was  in  her  heart  if  they  had  been  formally  betrothed  ; 
but  in  the  present  singular  posture  of  the  affair  she  was 
unable  to  give  her  feeling  even  so  much  form  as  she  felt 
she  owed  him. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  and  endeavored  to  make 
her  tone  say  all  that  she  wished  to  put  into  words. 

March  caught  the  uncertain  pleading  in  her  voice,  and, 
suddenly  halting  his  horse,  said,  as  she  also  paused  and 
turned  somewhat  wonderingly  to  face  him, 

"  Darling,  you  must  not  go.  I  don't  know  that  I  have 
any  rights  worth  mentioning,  but  I  mean  to  use  all  I  have. 
I  yielded  at  first  because  I  thought  it  was  your  wish.  But 
I  see  that  you  are  only  surrendering  to  a  sense  of  duty. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  273 

It  may  be  necessary — I  am  willing  to  trust  your  sense  of 
that — but  if  either  of  us  is  to  assume  the  obligation  it 
must  be  I." 

Constance  eyed  him  for  a  moment  in  surprise.  It  was 
rather  a  wonder  that  she  found  her  thought  consenting 
so  readily  to  his,  than  that  he  should  take  this  tone  of 
authority,  which  affected  her.  It  was  not  so  strange  that 
he  should  command  as  that  she  should  unconsciously, 
almost  impassively,  obey. 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  go  away  ? "  she  asked,  at 
last. 

"  Certainly.  You  don't  think  that  when  it  is  simply  a 
question  of  separation  I  can  allow  you  to  make  the  move. 
It  is  my  duty,  my  privilege  to  go." 

"  But  your  work  at  Gerrit  ? " 

"  Lincoln  can  take  charge  of  that.  Was  it  that  you 
were  considering  ?  Be  careful  ;  I  shall  begin  to  believe 
you  really  care  for  me." 

Constance  blushed. 

"  You  know  I  was  interested  before " 

"  Would  it  have  occurred  to  you  then  to  go  away  to 
keep  me  there  ?  No,  let  us  leave  it  the  other  way.  The 
effect  upon  my  conceit  is  most  mischievous,  but  let  us 
take  the  risk." 

"  Oh,  if  you  insist  !  "  yielded  she,  with  a   little  laugh. 

"  Insist  is  an  ugly  word.  I  go  away  to  return  when  I 
have  your  permission.  That  is  all.  Only  make  the  time 
as  short  as  possible." 

"  I  gave  my  promise  to  Mr.  Keator  in  May,"  mused 
Constance.  "  A  year  from  that !  It  will  be  a  long 
time." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  keep  me  away  until  then  ? " 

"  Do  you  think  I  wish  it  ?     But  it's  due — due  Mr.  Kea- 


274  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

tor  and  myself.  You  may  say  I  owe  something  to  you. 
I'm  willing  to  acknowledge  that  debt — afterward." 

"  It  will  be  a  miserable  time  for  me.  I  don't  pretend  to 
deny  that.  But  if  I  may  claim  you  at  last  I  could  wait 
twice  as  long.  I  shall  have  that  to  sustain  me.  Poor 
Keator  !  He  has  not  even  that  consolation." 

"  Where  shall  you  go  ?"  asked  Constance,  solicitously. 

He  gave  her  an  inquiring  glance. 

"  Home — shall  I  not  ?  You  are  giving  me  time.  I 
shall  need  some  one  to  talk  with  about  you,  and  I  want 
to  make  you  familiar  to  my  mother  before  I  bring  you  to 
her." 

Constance's  cheek  was  swiftly  dyed  again.  She 
glanced  down. 

"  You  are  looking  a  long  way  ahead." 

"  That  is  all  I  shall  have  to  console  me.  You  wouldn't 
have  me  look  at  the  present  ?  " 

"  Don't  see  too  much  in  the  future." 

"  That  won't  be  easy.  You  must  remember  that  I  see 
you  in  the  midst  of  it." 

Lincoln  accompanied  March  to  New  York  and  saw 
him  sail.  In  his  law  office  he  had  fortunately  not  yet 
done  so  much  business  as  to  make  its  temporary  aban 
donment  costly  ;  and  when  he  had  made  certain  arrange 
ments  regarding  its  disposition,  he  returned  to  Gerrit. 

Constance  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  from  herself  the 
poignant  sense  of  loss  and  absence  which  she  felt  after 
March's  departure,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  she  found 
Lincoln's  frequent  and  cheering  presence  a  kind  of  bene 
faction.  In  his  calls  they  talked  chiefly  of  Gerrit  (of 
which  Constance  deemed  it  a  duty  to  secure  the  most  full 
and  accurate  reports),  and  very  frankly  of  March.  When 
she  allowed  herself  to  dwell  on  this  foremost  figure  in  her 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  275 

thoughts,  she  was  often  guilty  of  wishing  that  she  had  not 
sent  him  away — only,  however,  to  make  cordial  repent 
ance  immediately.  It  was  usually  a  pure  satisfaction  to 
her  that  she  had  been  able  to  do  such  complete  justice  to 
her  pledge,  and  it  was  with  a  singularly  clear  conscience 
that  she  set  out  with  her  aunt  one  day  early  in  the  new 
year  for  Judea. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

CONSTANCE  turned  the  great  key  in  the  door  of  her 
old  home  with  a  melancholy  pleasure.  But  when  she 
had  entered  she  went  quickly  from  room  to  room.  It 
was  all  the  same.  All  her  dumb  friends  among  the  fur 
niture  and  pictures  were  waiting  faithfully  for  her.  Not 
a  chair  had  been  moved,  not  a  painting  changed.  She 
had  feared  that  the  man  in  charge — or  certainly  his 
notable  wife — would  have  altered  and  re-arranged  in  the 
German  strife  for  neatness.  But  the  dust  had  gathered 
and  the  cobwebs  had  been  spun,  it  seemed,  without 
interference.  At  this  sight  the  inborn  house-wife  rose 
superior  to  the  sentiment  in  her,  and  the  permanence  of 
everything  was  no  longer  sweet.  It  was  the  stability  of 
the  grave  which  weeds  obliterate,  she  felt,  as  she  went 
swiftly  to  the  nearest  window.  She  opened  it  and 
waited  impatiently  for  the  air  and  light  to  make  them 
selves  a  home  again  in  the  musty  rooms. 

"  Yes,  aunt,"  she  begged,  as  Mrs.  Echols  glanced 
doubtfully  at  her,  "  open  them,  please  !  Open  all  you 
can  !  I  feel  as  if  the  old  house  were  reproaching  me 
for  having  abandoned  it  so  long." 

She  sped  down  stairs  and  returned  with  a  broom  and 
a  duster.  The  latter  she  gave  her  aunt,  and  retaining 
the  first  herself,  assaulted  the  cobwebs  with  a  kind  of 
tender  vigor.  The  two  had  not  laid  aside  their  bonnets 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  277 

and  mantles,  and  to  the  ignorant  eye  of  a  spectator  their 
movements  might  not  have  looked  wholly  reasonable. 
To  Mr.  Keator,  however,  who  came  limping  into  the 
parlor  when  the  war  some  moments  later  reached  that 
region,  they  were  quite  intelligible.  But  the  frequent 
sight  of  his  sister  engaged  in  this  species  of  temporary 
belligerency,  though  it  had  accustomed,  had  not  inured 
him  to  the  stirring  spectacle,  and  it  seemed  to  him  he 
would  do  as  well  to  return  at  a  more  auspicious  season. 
He  was  turning  away  from  the  door,  with  this  thought, 
when  Constance  caught  sight  of  him,  and,  dropping  her 
broom,  came  swiftly  to  him  with  both  hands  outstretched 
and  her  illuminating  smile  upon  her  lips. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Keator ! "  she  exclaimed,  joyously,  as  he 
took  his  hand  from  his  crutch  to  be  free  to  receive  her 
double  clasp,  "  I'm  so  glad  !  I  hoped  you  would  see  us 
and  come  up  at  once." 

She  led  him  to  a  sofa  draped  in  its  fatigue  costume  of 
brown  holland,  introducing  her  aunt  on  the  way. 

"  Surely  you  weren't  going  to  let  our  broom  and 
duster  drive  you  off  ?  We  were  only  trying  to  make 
it  seem  more  homelike,  and  that  is  unnecessary  since 
you  have  come." 

She  pointed  her  pretty  flattery  with  a  kindly  smile, 
and  she  did  not  see  the  look  of  happiness  that  possessed 
the  minister's  face  as  she  went  on. 

"  How  can  I  say  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again,  Mr. 
Keator  ?  I've  been  trying  to  make  it  all  seem  natural 
here  at  home.  It  seems  perfectly  natural  now." 

She  began  to  ask  him  many  questions.  How  was  the 
garden  looking  ?  She  had  not  yet  been  out  to  see. 
And  the  oleander — was  it  still  alive  ?  Did  the  Sieckel 
pear  tree  yield  as  abundantly  as  usual  ?  Who  owned 


278  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

her  father's  old  horse  "  Fancy  "  now  ?  Had  the  man 
who  bought  her  kept  her,  and  had  he  treated  her  well  ? 
Benicia — was  she  still  with  him  ?  Was  Sister  Zelda  as 
briskly  as  usual  ?  Constance  found  time  between  her 
rapid  questions  to  wonder  that  so  many  interests  re 
mained  to  her  in  Judea. 

Mr.  Keator  sat  fingering  his  crutch,  answering  as  well 
as  he  might,  and  gazing  absorbedly  at  her  unconscious 
face. 

"  And  your  sister  ? "  asked  Constance,  suddenly. 
"  Some  one  tells  me  that  you  have  been  importing  a 
sister,  Mr.  Keator.  Where  have  you  kept  her  hidden  ? 
You  never  said  anything  about  her." 

"  She  was  so  far  away  and  I  did  not  expect  her  soon 
then." 

"  It  must  be  a  great  pleasure  to  have  her  with  you. 
Please  tell  her  how  glad  we  shall  be  to  know  her. 
What  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  Rose,"  answered  Mr.  Keator,  abstractedly,  keeping 
his  impotent  eyes  on  her  face. 

"  Rose — Rose  Keator.     What  a  pretty  name  !  " 

"  She  will  be  very  happy  to  call,"  said  the  minister, 
formally. 

Constance  paused  abruptly  and  regarded  him  in 
thoughtful  absence.  His  glance  was  turned  toward  Mrs. 
Echols,  whom  he  began  to  ask  some  perfunctory  ques 
tions.  She  was  not  thinking  as  she  looked  at  him  of  his 
unfailing  courtesy,  of  which  this  polite  inquiry  was  one 
of  the  examples.  She  had  suddenly  come  to  the  end 
of  her  queries,  and  she  was  conscious  that  she  had 
prosecuted  them  rather  as  a  means  of  defence  than  for 
the  satisfaction  of  her  curiosity.  She  asked  herself 
what  she  had  found  it  necessary  to  defend  herself  against, 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  279 

and  the  instant  answer  caused  her  to  accuse  her  imagi 
nation  for  its  failure  to  warn  her.  She  had  given  no 
thought  to  this  meeting  with  Mr.  Keator,  and  she  felt 
that  her  manner  wore  rather  obviously  the  air  of  having 
been  manufactured  to  meet  an  exigency.  Those  who 
have  made  her  acquaintance  will  understand  that  this 
was  of  all  things  disturbing  to  her. 

"  You  have  come  back  to  see  about  the  hospital  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Keator,  turning  again  to  her,  "  or  have  you 
been  better  advised  ?  You  know  Miss  Van  Cleef's 
plan,"  he  added  to  Mrs.  Echols.  "  It  was  my  endeavor 
to  discourage  her  when  she  proposed  it.  It  seemed  like 
doing  too  much." 

"  She  does  it  for  her  father.  You  must  remember 
that.  In  that  way  you  won't  think  she  can  do  too  much," 
Mrs.  Echols  returned,  with  her  courteous  smile. 

"  But  it  comes  to  the  Church " 

"  The  Church  may  blush  as  a  matter  of  form,  said 
Constance,  ''but you  must  take  it.  There  is  no  ques 
tion — there  need  not  be  ;  need  there,  Mr.  Keator  ? " 

"  We  can't  prevent  your  gift,  I  suppose,  if  you  are 
determined,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  ;  "  and,  I  think,  I  can 
make  the  elders  see — yes,  I  may  promise  their  assent,  I 
believe." 

Mr.  Keator  had  not  made  Constance's  proposition 
known,  and  in  his  inmost  heart  he  was  aware  that  some 
difficulty  might  be  made  about  her  standing  in  the 
Church.  He  took  the  burden  cheerfully  on  his  shoulders, 
and  he  did  not  permit  them  to  suppose  that  it  existed. 

They  talked  for  a  long  time  of  the  hospital,  especially 
canvassing  the  proper  site,  and  when  he  rose  to  go, 
Constance  said, 

"  I  shall  have  to  leave  it  all  to  you,  Mr.   Keator.     It  is 


280  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

pleasant  to  take  up  the  old  custom  of  relying  on  your  gen 
erosity." 

She  gave  him  a  look  which  she  meant  to  express  all 
the  kindness  and  sympathy  for  him  that  was  in  her  heart. 
She  had  always  greatly  liked  him,  and  in  this  renewal 
of  their  intercourse  she  liked  him  more  than  ever.  How 
much  this  feeling  may  have  had  to  do  with  compassion 
for  a  situation  whose  peculiar  misery,  until  she  saw  him, 
she  seemed  never  to  have  fairly  felt,  need  not  be  ven 
tured.  It  is  certain  that  she  found  herself  often  during 
their  talk  picturing  the  months  that  he  had  passed  since 
her  departure.  If  the  passion  whose  strength  she  could 
not  doubt  had  not  yielded  to  his  severe  resolution,  what 
months  they  must  have  been  !  Her  fancy  furnished  her 
with  no  adequate  idea  of  them,  she  was  sure,  but  the 
sense  of  this  only  made  them  the  more  pitiful.  All  this 
she  tried  to  make  her  expressive  face  say  in  bidding  him 
good-morning.  She  may  have  trusted  too  much  to  the 
fineness  of  Mr.  Keator's  perceptions.  This  was  what 
she  thought  when  she  saw  the  answering  look  on  his 
face. 

The  truth  was  she  had  taken  too  little  into  account 
the  weak,  man  nature  which  no  vows  or  obligations  can 
quite  overthrow.  In  his  glance  she  read  with  terrifying 
clearness  the  history  of  the  few  months  she  had  tried  to 
imagine — all  the  resistless  love  and  longing,  the  unbend 
ing  will  to  conquer  and  the  loathing  of  the  carnal  nature 
that  would  not  down.  She  wondered  why  she  had  not 
seen  before  in  the  haggard  lines  of  his  face  what  it  had 
cost  him.  It  was  a  look  that  would  have  frightened  one 
less  discriminating.  Constance  was  only  sympathetically 
appalled  at  the  retrospect.  For  the  future  she  saw,  or 
thought  she  saw,  in  his  look  the  assurance  of  ultimate 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  281 

victory.  She  was  shaken  by  the  passion  that  glowed 
upon  her  from  his  eyes  ;  but  she  thought  of  the  integrity 
behind  it — an  integrity  which  in  all  her  acquaintance 
with  him  had  never  failed  for  more  than  the  instant  in 
the  garden,  and  felt  calmly  secure. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MR.  KEATOR  left  the  house  and  walked  toward  his 
home  with  a  bitter  consciousness  teasing  his  faithful 
intention.  The  serene  heights  to  which  he  fondly 
fancied  he  had  climbed  seemed  sinking  under  him.  The 
quiet  strength  which  he  had  trusted  that  he  had  gained 
through  Rose's  presence  and  his  assiduous  self-abase 
ment  was  the  infant's  strength  when  the  need  came  to 
face  her.  He  had  a  despondent  perception  that  he  had 
been  building  a  house  of  cards  which  was  weakly  set 
tling  about  him.  As  he  saw  this  emotion  of  the  moment 
begin  to  set  crumbling  all  his  long-erecting,  wearily- 
builded  structures,  he  felt  wretched  and  ashamed.  It 
seemed  cruel,  and  for  an  instant  he  found  frowardness 
to  question  the  Providence  which  had  sent  her  again  into 
his  path.  In  his  quick  repentance  he  saw  what  seemed 
to  him  a  clear  design  to  make  his  trial  more  searching, 
and  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  silently  besought  strength 
to  bear  it,  that  he  deserved  all  and  more. 

"  You  have  seen  her  !  "  exclaimed  Rose,  as  she  helped 
him  off  with  his  coat  in  the  hallway  of  the  parsonage. 

She  sought  anxiously  in  her  brother's  face  for  the 
signs  of  her  fear,  and  believed  that  she  found  them. 

•'  It  has  troubled  you,"  she  said,  with  swift  deduction. 
"  Oh,  it  is  too  bad  that  she  should  come  back  to  make 
you  miserable  again." 

Mr.  Keator  forced  a  smile. 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  283 

"  Do  I  look  miserable  ?  No,  Rose,"  he  told  her,  as  he 
stroked  her  cheek,  "  she  is  come  upon  a  better  mission 
than  that.  She  is  to  build  us  a  new  hospital,  you 
know." 

"  But  if  she  tears  down  all  your  buildings  in  the 
process  ?  "  lamented  the  girl  with  unconscious  repetition 
of  his  metaphor. 

Mr.  Keator  shrank  at  this  arraignment  of  his  inward 
fear,  but  he  said,  summoning  a  smile  again,  with  effort, 

"  We  shall  have  to  put  an  extra  prop  or  two  under  the 
walls — that  is  all.  We  shall  get  along,  I  think.  I  shall 
be  more  tempted — yes.  But  I  wish  to  be  tempted,  you 
know." 

"  How  can  I  ever  doubt  you  ? "  said  Rose,  as  they 
went  into  the  library  together.  "  It  is  not  really  a  doubt. 
All  my  knowledge  of  you  teaches  me  so  much  better  !  " 

Mr.  Keator  seated  himself  rather  wearily,  and  she 
sank  beside  him  on  her  accustomed  hassock. 

"  Remember  that  it  is  always  my  love  that  forms  it," 
she  went  on.  "  Sometimes  it  must  seem  strange  to  you, 
John." 

"  Do  you  think  I  never  doubt  myself  ? " 

"  Ah,  that  is  your  great  weakness — your  modesty. 
There's  nothing  you  mightn't  do  if  you  believed  more  in 
yourself." 

The  minister  sighed. 

"  Nay,  say  rather  that  there  is  nothing  I  might  not  do 
if  I  believed  more  in  the  saving  force  of  my  highest  self 
— the  self  that  was  in  Christ." 

Rose  went  to  call  on  Constance  the  following  day. 
The  holland  cerements  had  been  lifted  from  the  furni 
ture,  and  the  ladies  had  spent  the  morning  in  finding  a 
servant,  Mrs.  Echols  being  still  out  upon  that  mission. 


284  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

The  discussion  of  that  privileged  class,  which  among 
women  makes  such  a  fortunate  stop-gap  topic  of  con 
versation  as  men  find  in  politics,  found  for  the  two 
a  ready  road  to  good  acquaintance.  Rose  told  of  her 
own  trials  with  Benicia  in  her  vivacious  fashion.  As 
she  sat  in  her  Moravian  costume  upon  the  sofa  talking 
gayly,  she  reminded  Constance  of  a  French  painting  she 
had  once  seen.  This  represented  a  frolicsome  peasant 
girl  who  had  dressed  herself  as  a  nun  and  was  secretly 
exhibiting  her  profane  masquerade  to  a  sympathetic 
group.  Not  that  the  cap  and  kerchief  and  gown  of  gray 
seemed  discordant  with  the  fair  figure  before  her  ;  on 
the  contrary,  there  was  both  a  mysterious  propriety  in 
her  dress  and  a  justifying  naturalness  in  such  a  manner 
as  an  accompaniment  of  it. 

Constance  did  not  understand  it.  She  recalled  her 
old  feeling  about  herself  :  that  her  costume  and  her 
bearing  refuted  each  other.  Yet  Rose,  who  certainly  had 
not  what  the  superficial  observer  would  have  thought 
the  Moravian  air,  seemed  in  some  way  to  have  succeeded 
in  making  her  dress  and  her  manner  very  good  friends. 
Constance  wanted  to  tell  her  that  she  was  fortunate. 

Rose  had  not  at  all  come  to  exhibit  herself,  and  she 
might  have  been  modestly  troubled  by  Constance's  spec 
ulations  if  she  had  been  made  acquainted  with  them. 
She  had  called  chiefly  because  she  believed  that  Mr. 
Keator  wished  it,  and  also,  it  must  be  owned,  from  an 
impulse  of  curiosity  to  know  the  girl  who  had  brought 
such  havoc  into  her  brother's  quiet  life. 

Rose,  being  a  woman,  was  nothing  if  not  partisan,  and 
all  her  charity  had  not  availed  to  bring  her  into  a  favor 
able  mood  for  this  meeting.  She  could  not  help  thinking 
Constance  to  blame  in  refusing  her  love  to  her  brother  ; 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  285 

and  then  in  making  the  happiness,  which  might,  never 
theless,  have  come  to  both  of  them,  impossible,  by  her 
deafness  to  the  warning  that  would  have  prevented  the 
rebuke  in  the  church.  It  was,  therefore,  with  a  species 
of  resentful  curiosity  that  she  came  to  take  a  look  at 
Constance. 

She  meant  merely  to  take  a  look  and  depart ;  but 
Constance's  warm  greeting,  her  frank  readiness  to  like 
her  for  her  brother's  sake,  her  alluring  manner  won  upon 
her.  She  could  not  resist  the  amiable  thirst  to  be  liked, 
which  Constance's  face  expressed  at  the  moment,  and 
expressed  so  rarely.  Rose  found  herself  flattered  out  of 
her  umbrage,  and  at  length  saw  herself  repentantly 
endeavoring  to  do  away  with  the  impression  she  fancied 
her  first  reserve  might  have  created.  They  talked  of 
many  matters,  all  of  which  seemed  to  have  some  subtle 
relation  to  Mr.  Keator  ;  for  Rose  had  the  sense  of  his 
centrality  in  the  revolution  of  things  which  we  find  so 
pretty  in  a  young  wife  touching  her  husband. 

At  last  they  came  to  speak  directly  of  this  subject  of 
her  eloquence,  and  Rose  tried,  without  the  malice  which 
must  have  tinged  the  effort  a  few  moments  before,  to 
give  her  hearer  a  sense  of  his  nobility.  She  could  not 
resist  the  glad  feeling  of  gratification  which  stole  over 
her  as  Constance  joined  in  this  celebration  of  her 
brother's  virtues.  It  overthrew  and  put  to  shame  all  her 
secret  theories,  but  in  her  pleasure  she  did  not  mind 
that.  She  said  with  natveti  that  she  could  not  imagine 
anyone  failing  to  love  him.  Constance  assented  quickly, 
and  added  that  other  men  were  like  the  mediocre  paint 
ings,  touching  which  there  might  be  a  thousand  differ 
ences,  but  that  Mr.  Keator  was  like  a  master's  picture, 
about  which  no  one  could  hesitate. 


286  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

Then  at  length  Rose  understood.  With  a  pang  for 
which  she  found  no  excuse,  she  reached  the  entire 
comprehension  she  had  refused  to  gain  from  her 
brother's  modesty.  She  admired  him — that  was  it — 
admired  him  distantly  as  she  would  a  work  of  art ;  her 
liking  for  him  was  for  the  pleasure  which  he  gave  her, 
not  for  the  pleasure  which  she  might  give  him.  That 
was  the  essence  of  love ;  and  Rose  perceived  with  a 
clearness  against  which  there  was  nothing  to  urge,  that 
there  was  not  a  particle  of  that  sentiment  for  him  in  her 
breast.  She  evidently  esteemed  him  too  much  to  love 
him.  It  seemed  to  Rose  that  she  ought  to  be  glad  of 
this,  and  at  least  she  relieved  Constance  of  all  reproach. 
This  girl,  to  whom  she  had  come  without  amiability, 
understood  him  ;  of  that  she  was  confident.  And  what 
could  be  more  satisfying  ?  It  was  perhaps  because  she 
had  clung,  until  the  moment,  with  the  persistence  of 
romance,  to  the  hope  that  in  spite  of  seeming  obstacles 
all  might  yet  work  together  for  their  happiness  with 
each  other,  that  she  felt  a  twinge  of  reluctance  in  letting 
go  her  hold  of  the  possibility..  But  she  went  home  with 
a  lighter  heart  than  she  had  carried  to  the  old  house,  and 
she  took  an  early  opportunity  to  make  one  or  two  admis 
sions  to  her  brother. 

No  one  knew — even  Rose,  with  all  her  sympathies 
stretched  toward  his  trouble,  did  not  guess  the  rending 
pain  that  tortured  every  moment  of  Mr.  Keator's  waking 
hours  after  Constance's  coming  and  haunted  his  dreams. 
He  did  not  fall  to  pitying  himself  ;  he  did  not  blame 
circumstances.  But  he  grew  to  hate  the  infirmity  which 
would  not  suffer  him  to  rest. 

A  man  of  less  severe  training  and  less  rigorous  habits 
of  thought  might  have  been  able  to  shift  the  respon- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  287 

sibility  for  his  condition,  and  to  find  consolation  in  the 
belief  that  the  current  into  which  he  had  chanced  to 
drop,  the  direction  of  fate,  the  accidents  outside  his 
power — accidents  which  had  drawn  him  into  relation 
with  Constance,  and  without  his  will,  had  brought  about 
and  left  upon  his  hands  his  present  intolerable  position — 
were  irresistible  agents,  nullifying  his  personal  force. 
But  nothing  was  more  accurate  than  Mr.  Keator's  con 
science.  He  could  not  have  cajoled  it  if  he  had  wished 
to,  and  these  poor  sophistries  were  as  impossible  to  him 
as  a  deliberate  falsity. 

It  had  been  his  life  business  to  seek  out  and  publish 
the  ways  of  sin,  to  warn  against  Satan's  devices  and  to 
brand  them  relentlessly.  It  was  not  now  the  time,  since 
he  had  become  the  sinner,  to  blind  his  lucid  vision.  He 
did  not  shrink  from  characterizing  his  wrong  ;  indeed, 
he  found  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  excoriating  himself. 

The  clear  sight  which  showed  him  the  sin  showed  as 
pitilessly  its  penalty,  and  his  conscience  crucified  him 
daily  in  agonies  of  which  no  words  can  give  adequate 
sense.  Her  potent  presence  had  melted  his  firm  resolves 
and  swept  away  all  that  he  had  gained  before  a  week  had 
passed.  The  innumerable  plans  and  preparations  for 
the  hospital,  and — when  it  was  begun, — the  consultations 
that  inevitably  went  on  between  them,  kept  them  in  the 
most  intimate  association. 

He  was  forced  to  sit  or  walk  beside  her  for  many  hours 
each  day,  and  to  talk  of  architecture  or  of  indifferent 
matters  while  one  thought  burned  momently  for  utter 
ance.  At  times,  in  the  rapture  of  his  love,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  must  take  her  in  his  arms  ;  as  he  sat  with 
her,  the  temptation  to  snatch  the  slim,  fair  hand  that  lay 
outlined  against  her  dark  gown,  almost  within  his  touch, 
'9 


288  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

was  scarcely  resistible.  He  had  only  to  say  the  few 
fatal  words  and  she  was  his  ;  and  they  hung  so  insist 
ently  on  his  tongue  that  often  they  had  almost  said  them 
selves. 

It  is  not  strange  that  he  grew  half  reckless.  He 
looked  into  her  intoxicating  face,  and  all  obligations 
that  kept  him  from  her  grew  insignificant.  Yet  for  any 
reason  or  no  reason,  he  had  always  the  saving  feeling  of 
the  impossibility  of  final  failure  ;  while  out  of  the  sense 
of  present  weakness  one  thing  always  stood — his  integ 
rity.  It  had  never  been  questioned  ;  until  the  fatal  hour 
when  his  trial  had  begun  in  the  arbor  in  the  garden,  it 
had  sternly  never  been  allowed  to  fail.  Save  for  that 
momentary  weakness  it  was  intact,  and  was  it  not  still 
his  ?  It  presented  itself  as  something  worth  living  and 
struggling  for,  even  if  he  could  forget  the  abundant 
spiritual  rewards  to  which  his  conflict  looked.  He  con 
stantly  pricked  himself  with  the  recollection  of  what  it 
would  cost  him  to  lose  the  consciousness  of  that.  Re 
luctance  to  forfeit  his  self-respect  was  indeed  lower 
than  the  highest  motive  he  could  have  wished  to  guide 
him  ;  but  when  the  moon  is  not  out  one  may  be  glad 
to  walk  by  the  light  of  the  stars. 

The  consolations  of  his  faith  were  still  his,  but  the 
grievous  sin  which  he  felt  himself  to  be  daily  committing 
often  so  weighed  upon  him  that  he  was  ashamed  to  use 
them.  How  could  he  ask  forgiveness  for  a  fault  of  which, 
fortify  himself  as  he  might,  he  was  certain  he  must  again 
be  guilty  the  following  day  ?  In  the  church  he  offered  up 
the  usual  prayers.  Some  of  them  seemed  framed  for  his 
trouble  ;  and  an  observant  ear  might  have  detected  his 
wishful  stress  upon  the  words  of  the  Pater  Noster — 
"  lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ANOTHER  man  might  have  taken  the  coward's  refuge 
in  retreat.  But  for  every  reason  that  was  impossible  to 
Mr.  Keator.  If  he  could  have  brought  himself  to  such 
poltroonery,  he  could  hardly  have  left  his  work.  Vaca 
tions  were  not  frequent  among  the  Moravian  ministers, 
and  he  had  recently  been  granted  such  a  respite.  But 
the  consideration  which  held  him  back,  when  occasionally 
in  desperation  he  sought  any  way  out  of  this  form  of 
daily  torture,  was  his  sense  of  what  he  owed  to  Con 
stance's  generosity.  She  had  given  him  this  period  of 
probation,  and  at  whatever  cost  of  pain  to  himself  he 
must  refuse  to  cheat  it  of  its  efficacy.  His  final  conquest 
would  by  so  much  the  more  have  attained  the  object  for 
which  she  had  munificently  given  her  promise.  But  the 
struggle  was  bitter !  He  had  supposed  himself  tried 
before,  and,  alas  !  had  fancied  himself  almost  conqueror. 
By  comparison,  while  she  was  still  securely  remote,  his 
burden  had  scarcely  deserved  the  name.  In  these  days 
of  acute  suffering,  to  hear  her  name  spoken  was  to  be 
shamed  by  the  pursuing  wish  ;  to  pass  her  dwelling,  as 
he  was  obliged  to  do  many  times  daily,  was  to  be  mad 
dened  by  remembrance  of  the  ease  with  which  he  might 
gain  the  happiness  for  which  every  fibre  of  his  torn 
spirit  longed. 

His  personal  difficulties  did  not  cause  him  to  falter  in 
his  Church  work.  On  the  contrary,  he  plunged  more  fer 
vently  into  every  task  which  he  could  pretend  an  obliga- 


290  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

tion  to  undertake.  The  irresistible  craving  to  busy  his 
brain  about  concerns  quite  removed  from  his  own  pressed 
upon  him  ;  he  felt  sometimes  as  if  he  must  flee  from  his 
thoughts,  and  on  these  occasions  often  pained  Rose  by 
his  rashness. 

The  genuine  Winter  was  with  them  now.  In  the  street 
a  single  deep  rut  served  for  a  road,  and  before  the  houses 
the  snow  was  monstrously  massed  by  the  brethren's  con 
scientious  shovels.  Within,  the  frost  tapestries  shadowed 
the  window-panes,  and  the  huge  logs  that  painted  fanta 
sies  in  rose-color  on  them  in  the  twilight,  again  made  the 
hearth  the  central  point  in  the  brethren's  homes.  It  was 
in  weather  like  this  that  Rose  found  it  needful  to  beg  her 
brother  not  to  attempt  the  drive  to  Little  Slab  Hollow. 
This  was  a  village  fifteen  miles  from  Judea,  where  a  man 
who  had  formerly  been  one  of  his  flock  lay  seriously  ill. 
He  had  left  Judea  three  years  before  on  the  world's 
business,  as  the  brethren  called  it.  It  had,  at  all  events, 
not  been  Moravian  business,  and  his  name  had  been  sor 
rowfully  erased  from  their  books.  Now,  in  his  failure 
and  distress,  Mr.  Keator  knew  that  he  would  not  venture 
to  send  for  him.  When,  therefore,  word  came  to  him 
of  his  illness,  he  did  not  hesitate  before  the  opportunity 
which  he  saw  to  rescue  a  soul.  It  is  true  that  when  he  was 
secure  against  Rose's  importunities,  slipping  quickly  out 
of  Judea  in  a  sleigh,  he  owned  to  himself,  grieving,  that  his 
motive  had  not  been  a  perfectly  single  one.  It  was 
impossible  to  deny  that  he  was  glad  to  escape  from  the 
brooding  reflections  which  this  evening  had  cost  him 
more  than  the  ordinary  pain. 

Constance,  who  had  intimated  at  her  arrival  that  her 
stay  would  be  brief,  had  now  determined  to  remain  a  week 
longer  than  she  had  intended,  that  she  might  at  least  see 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  291 

the  hospital  outlined.  The  ground  when  she  came  had 
been  less  firmly  frozen  than  is  usual  in  early  January, 
and  the  work  had  been  begun.  The  recent  snow  had 
given  pause  to  the  building,  however,  and  the  young 
foundations  were  buried  where  only  the  January  thaw 
could  search  them  out.  It  was  for  this  somewhat  mythi 
cal  occurrence  that  Constance  had  decided  to  wait,  and 
her  decision  was  giving  Mr.  Keator  a  kind  of  sweet 
anguish. 

He  was  glad  that  she  was  to  stay  longer.  How  should 
he  not  be  ?  The  future  after  her  departure  was  a  black 
void  in  his  account.  He  hesitated  to  look  into  it,  and  it 
was  hard  to  imagine  himself  bearing  it.  But  it  was  not 
toward  this  that  his  quick  fear  went  out  when  she  told 
him  of  her  intention.  He  at  once  said  to  himself  that 
he  would  willingly  face  the  result  if  she  would  but  go 
away — immediately,  without  an  hour's  delay. 

As  his  mind  leaped  forward  in  imagination  to  this 
added  week,  he  was  for  the  first  time  fearful  of  himself. 
He  began  to  doubt  ever  so  faintly  his  ultimate  triumph. 
He  had  been  sorely  tempted.  He  had  long  felt  himself 
to  be  at  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  he  had  known  that  he 
was  in  danger ;  at  times,  perhaps,  he  had  been  nearer 
yielding  than  he  knew.  But  unconsciously,  obscurely, 
from  what  source  he  knew  not,  he  had  been  buoyed  by 
the  faith  that  utter  failure  was  impossible.  In  her  pres 
ence  it  had  seemed  to  him,  as  each  moment  succeeded 
the  last,  that  he  must  surely  fail,  and  yet  each  moment 
passed  and  the  next  found  him  as  before. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  how  it  was — it  may  have  been  due 
to  the  blameless  life  behind  that  would  not  be  so  belied, 
or  perhaps  merely  to  his  obstinate  hope — but,  through  it 
all,  something  had  given  him  intangible  assurance  that, 


2g 2  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

tempted  as  he  might  be,  such  unthinkable  ruin  could  not 
befall  him,  such  an  annulling  of  all  his  work,  such  a 
denial  of  the  faith  by  which  he  had  lived,  Heaven  would 
not  permit  to  overtake  him.  But  as  he  looked  forward 
to  another  such  week  of  close  association  as  those  bit 
terly  sweet  weeks  just  past,  his  confidence  was  shaken  ; 
he  reckoned  with  his  remaining  strength,  and  feared 
for  it. 

With  these  thoughts  burdening  his  mind,  it  was  a 
blessed  relief  to  feel  the  motion  of  the  sleigh  under  him, 
to  take  the  keen  air  beating  against  his  cheeks,  even  to 
find  an  occupation  in  being  thoroughly  cold. 

The  man  at  Little  Slab  Hollow  was  very  low  with  fever, 
but  his  heavy  eyes  had  still  the  intelligence  of  his  shame 
as  Mr.  Keator  bent  over  him. 

"  You  were  pardoned  long  ago,  Dinkel,"  said  the  min 
ister,  taking  his  hand  before  he  could  begin  to  excuse 
himself.  "  We  never  cherished  any  ill  will  against  you. 
We  were  only  grieved  that  you  were  led  to  do  it." 

"  Led  !  "  exclaimed  the  man,  hoarsely,  willing  to  accept 
the  charitable  construction.  "  That  is  a  kind  word — led. 
But  it's  the  truth.  I  wouldn't  have  gone  for  to  do  it 
myself.  It  was  a  man  I  met  in  the  world,"  he  groaned. 
"  I  suppose  I  was  a  good  subject.  I  was  sort  of  restless, 
and  he  put  the  devil's  thoughts  into  me.  It  wasn't  easy 
to  do.  I  was  fond  of  the  Church.  And  so  I  didn't  go 
far — only  down  to  Maryland.  I  thought  maybe  I  might 
want  to  comeback  some  day,  and  it's  turned  out  so." 

"  Well,  well,  Dinkel,  that  is  all  settled  now,"  said  Mr. 
Keator,  soothingly,  for  the  man  had  somehow  got  upon 
his  elbow  in  his  excitement.  "  Don't  agitate  yourself.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  about  other  things." 

With  his   thoughts    constantly    elsewhere,    command 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  293 

them  as  he  might,  Mr.  Keator  endeavored  to  prepare 
this  errant  soul  for  death.  At  last  the  man  fell  asleep 
with  a  peaceful  smile  upon  his  lips.  The  minister  sat 
watching  him.  Once  or  twice  the  landlady  of  the  inn, 
at  which,  working  his  way  back  to  Judea,  the  traveller 
had  fallen  ill,  came  in  to  look  at  him  and  to  ask  if  there 
was  anything  she  could  do. 

Dinkel  woke  at  length  uneasily  and  asked  for  water. 
Mr.  Keator  brought  it.  As  the  dying  man  looked  into 
his  eyes — "  Is  it  all  the  same  up  at  the  settlement  ? 
Would  I  know  it  ? "  he  asked,  pitifully. 

"  All  the  same.  Nothing  is  changed."  But  after  a 
moment,  with  a  pang  of  recollection  of  his  own,  he  added  : 
"  A  hospital  is  being  built  near  the  Sisters'  Choir-house. 
You  remember  where  it  stands  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  forget  !  "  he  moaned.  Then,  with  the 
irrelevance  of  his  wandering  thoughts  :  "  Are  you  sure 
they  forgive  me  ? "  he  asked. 

Mr.  Keator  made  the  required  confirmation,  and  the 
man  relapsed  into  a  vacant  silence,  keeping  his  eyes  on 
the  unceiled  rafters  above  his  head. 

"  Where  is  the  society  getting  the  money  ?  "  he  asked, 
musingly,  after  a  long  pause,  without  turning  his  face. 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  Hospital,"  he  answered,  briefly. 

Mr.  Keator  struggled  with  the  simple  words. 

"  From  Miss  Van  Cleef,"  replied  he,  after  a  moment. 

"  The  doctor's  daughter — she  that  went  South  ?  " 

"  The  same,"  assented  Mr.  Keator,  laconically. 

His  thoughts  had  reverted  to  Constance.  It  was 
several  minutes  before  Dinkel  interrupted  them. 

"  Yes,  I  went  South  myself,"  he  murmured,  beginning 
to  wander  a  little  ;  .  .  .  "  saw  her  there." 


294  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

In  his  absorption  it  had  not  occurred  to  Mr.  Keator 
to  wonder  how  Dinkel  knew  of  Constance's  departure 
from  Judea.  He  asked  his  question  of  him  now,  impul 
sively. 

"  At  Quinnimont  ?  " 

"  Gerrit." 

Mr.  Keator  said  to  himself  that  he  did  not  know  she 
had  travelled  in  the  South.  He  permitted  himself  to 
inquire  the  whereabouts  of  Gerrit. 

"  March,"  said  Dinkel,  with  effort.  "  Mr.  March — 
you  know  him  ? " 

Mr.  Keator  wound  his  fingers  about  his  crutch.  Con 
stance,  with  no  active  wish  to  keep  the  intelligence  from 
him,  yet  with  a  kind  of  shrinking  from  telling  it,  had 
not  informed  him  of  March's  return,  and,  of  course,  had 
found  no  reason  to  give  him  other  facts  concerning  her 
English  lover.  She  was  acquitting  herself  of  all  possible 
obligation  to  her  duty  in  the  matter.  It  was  character 
istic  that  she  should  feel  a  right  to  her  reserve.  But  the 
news  would  have  been  more  agreeable  from  her. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Keator,  "  where  was  he  ? " 

He  might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble  of  hiding 
his  intense  interest,  for  Dinkel  saw  nothing. 

"  Gerrit — his  place — colony,"  he  answered,  confusedly. 

Mr.  Keator  remembered  March's  project  of  a  colony 
very  well.  They  had  often  talked  it  over  together.  At 
the  neighborhood  of  this  colony  to  Constance's  residence 
he  tried  not  to  wonder.  He  said  to  himself  that  it  was 
a  mere  chance  ;  such  things  were  always  happening. 
But  he  did  not  ask  less  eagerly, 

"  And — and  Miss  Van  Cleef  ?     Was  she  there  ?  " 

The  man  turned  toward  him,  faintly  roused  by  his 
eagerness. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  295 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  reasonably.  "  She  used  to  come  over 
from  Quinnimont." 

"  She — she  was  interested  in  the  colony  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Keator. 

The  man  smiled  faintly  in  spite  of  his  failing  strength. 
Mr.  Keator  thought  it  a  devil's  smile. 

"  Mr.  March  .  .  .  interested  her,"  answered  Dinkel, 
difficultly,  but  in  a  tone  of  suggestion  for  which  the  min 
ister,  in  his  sudden  passion,  could  have  choked  him. 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Keator,  rising,  in  out 
rage. 

"  Every  one  knew."  gasped  the  man,  feebly. 

Mr.  Keator  hobbled  quickly  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  in  nervous,  helpless  wrath.  The  sun  made  itself 
vaguely  known  upon  the  gray  horizon,  and  he  counted 
the  chickens  in  the  tree  on  which  the  casement  looked, 
in  his  angry  agitation.  The  cock  began  to  bestir  him 
self  drowsily  and  set  up  his  crow,  while  the  minister's 
thoughts  went  in  desperate  iteration  over  this  intelli 
gence.  A  thousand  fancies  beset  him  ;  he  tried  hard  to 
reason  it  out  to  Constance's  credit,  to  something  which 
need  not  torture  him  with  its  mere  suggestion.  He 
could  not  suffer  himself  to  believe  what  the  man's  words 
seemed  to  say.  He  clung  with  the  tenacity  of  despair 
to  all  that  he  knew  of  Constance  ;  he  asked  himself  what 
he  knew  of  her  that  was  not  admirable,  and  would  not 
admit  the  ghastly  suggestion  born  of  his  own  experience  : 
she  doubtless  trusted  his  uprightness  as  implicitly  still 
as  he  had  always  trusted  hers ;  and  what  wickedness 
was  not  even  now  knocking  at  his  breast  ? 

He  turned  wearily  from  the  window.  It  suddenly 
seemed  to  him  gross  to  accept  this  man's  wandering 
words  against  all  his  knowledge  of  her.  It  discredited 


296  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

her.  He  sharply  resolved  not  to  allow  himself  an  evil 
thought  of  her  until  he  could  do  her  the  poor  justice  of 
confronting  her  with  the  story.  He  would  not  so  much 
as  inquire  further  of  the  man  who  lay  before  him.  It 
seemed  like  treason  now.  He  went  over  and  bent  above 
him.  Then  suddenly  he  knelt  beside  the  pallid  form 
and  prayed  for  pardon  in  an  agony  of  abasement.  He 
had  made  his  heart  a  nest  for  malice  and  given  nameless 
passions  welcome,  while  the  spirit  which  it  was  his  office 
to  console  had  fled. 


WHEN  HE  reached  home  a  little  after  breakfast-time, 
Rose  met  him  on  the  doorstep.  She  hesitated  at  his 
haggard  face.  Her  own  was  full  of  wistful  intelligence. 

"  You  have  been  up  all  night  !  "  she  cried,  reproach 
fully. 

Then,  leading  him  into  the  parlor,  to  which  the  vacant 
fireplace  and  the  drawn  curtains  gave  a  dreary  look,  she 
faced  him  with  an  indescribable  look  of  grief  and  pain. 
He  observed  that  she  was  pale,  and  began  to  wonder 
vaguely  why  she  had  brought  him  here.  But  he  was 
wearied  by  all  that  he  had  undergone  since  he  had  left 
home,  and  he  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  while  she 
absently  took  his  crutch,  from  habit.  He  looked  at  her 
again  as  he  drew  off  his  gloves  with  a  faint  sigh,  and 
observed  her  expression  more  curiously. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  he  asked.  His  fatigue  made  the 
question  languid.  "  Why  have  you  brought  me  in  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  how  shall  I  ever  tell  you  !  "  exclaimed  Rose,  all 
her  trouble  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  ?  has  anything  befallen " 

"  No,  it  is  not  she,"  returned  the  girl,  with  a  scorn  she 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  297 

did  not  attempt  to  repress.  "  It  is  you,  brother  ;  only 
you  !  " 

She  crept  with  a  soft  murmur  to  his  feet. 

"  Ah,  how  can  I  tell  you  how  sorry  I  feel  for  you, 
John  !  " 

He  took  the  letter  that  she  had  pushed  toward  him 
and  marvellingly  opened  it.  Suddenly  she  snatched  the 
sheet  from  him  and,  unfolding  it,  indicated  huskily  : 

"  There  !  there  !  " 

It  was  from  one  of  Rose's  English  friends,  and  with 
the  cruel  casualness  of  gossip  it  mentioned  the  engage 
ment  of  the  son  of  Sir  John  March — Rose  must  have 
heard  of  him  ;  he  had  visited  Judea  and  knew  her 
brother — to  an  American  girl,  a  Miss  Van  Cleef. 

Rose  was  frightened  at  the  pallor  which  stole  over  her 
brother's  face  as  he  read.  He  dug  his  nails  into  the 
flesh  as  he  ran  over  the  brief  sentences  twice.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  would  never  finish.  Then  he  asked  hoarsely  for 
his  crutch.  All  his  languor  was  gone  as  he  rose  with 
grief  and  anguish  in  his  face.  His  breath  came  in  quick 
gasps,  and  his  eyes  were  lighted  with  a  blaze  of  passion 
such  as  Rose  had  never  known  in  all  her  experience  of 
her  gentle  brother.  She  wished  bitterly  that  at  any  cost 
she  had  kept  it  from  him. 

She  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? " 

His  face  was  thunderous. 

"  Can  you  ask  ? "  he  cried. 

"  Don't,  brother,  don't !  "  exclaimed  Rose,  with  the 
courage  of  her  fear. 

In  the  midst  of  his  passion  he  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  Don't  fear,  little  sister  ;  don't  fear  !  Do  you  think 
I  would  hurt  her  ? " 


298  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

A  look  of  disdain  passed  over  his  face. 

"  Remember  that  you  once  loved  her  !  "  she  whis 
pered. 

"  Once  !  "  cried  the  minister.  Rose  was  quelled  and 
beaten  down  by  the  sudden  light  of  piteous  love  and 
longing  in  his  eyes. 

She  tremblingly  followed  him  to  the  door,  but  her  lips 
refused  to  shape  what  she  wished  to  say.  With  the 
impulse  of  her  habitual  care-taking  for  him,  she  threw 
his  great-coat  over  him,  while  he  fumbled  at  the  rack  for 
his  hat ;  but  she  feared  to  oppose  herself  to  him  as  he 
rushed  by  her  without  a  word  and  out  into  the  rising 
storm. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  with  the  snow  falling,  and 
watched  him  solicitously  as  he  made  his  rapid  way 
against  the  wind.  Once  she  reached  out  her  hand  and 
called,  but  the  wind  took  her  voice  and  swept  it  down 
the  street,  and  her  arm  dropped  aimlessly  at  her  side. 
She  did  not  know  what  she  wished  or  what  she  feared, 
but  his  swift  limp  was  charged  to  her  distressed  vision 
with  a  kind  of  relentlessness  which  made  her  tremble  for 
its  purpose.  Her  eyes  anxiously  pursued  his  frail  figure 
struggling  against  the  storm  until  he  ascended  the  steps 
which  would  lead  him  into  Constance's  presence.  Then 
a  gust  filled  her  straining  eyes  with  powdered  snow,  and 
she  turned  away  with  a  bitter  pang. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  wise  hesitate  to  kindle  the  anger  of  a  gentle 
spirit.  They  know  that  habitually  passionate  men  are 
never  shaken  by  such  rage  as,  upon  rare  provocation, 
visits  a  just  and  even  temper.  We  see  what  strength  and 
sweep  all  passion,  through  its  unwontedness,  has  with 
good  men  when  by  chance  they  are  touched  by  its  hot 
breath  ;  but  the  anger  of  a  good  man  has  another  power 
in  being  righteous.  In  common  it  is  born  of  a  real 
wrong,  and  when  a  man  begins  ever  so  slightly  to  feel 
himself  part  of  the  machinery  of  avenging  heaven  we 
know  what  blows  he  deals. 

Mr.  Keator,  as  he  read  for  the  second  time  the  letter 
which  Rose  showed  him,  was  devoured  by  a  kind  of 
madness — the  madness  in  which  peaceful  men  do  murder. 
He  could  have  borne  either  Dinkel's  intelligence  or 
Rose's  alone.  He  could  have  forced  himself  to  disbe 
lieve  either.  But  the  thorn  with  which  the  dying  man 
had  tortured  him  was  pressed  quickly  home  by  his  sister, 
and  a  great  rage  took  possession  of  him.  A  wild,  fleet 
ing  lament  for  the  end  he  instantly  foresaw  to  his  trial 
swept  through  him  ;  he  felt,  as  one  feels  in  a  dream  a  fall 
which  one  cannot  arrest,  that  all  was  lost  ;  and  then  he 
shook  himself  and  went  forth  to  right  the  wrong  she  had 
done  him. 

As  he  went  lamely  along  the  street  the  sentences  with 
which  he  meant  to  sting  her  began  to  shape  themselves 
in  his  mind  with  horrid  fertility.  He  wished  to  hurt  her. 


300  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

It  was  very  simple,  what  he  had  to  say.  It  could  be 
done  quickly.  But  he  longed,  with  an  incredible  longing, 
for  a  man  whose  mercy  a  few  hours  before  included  all 
the  world,  and  who  had  never  been  able  to  hurt  an  insect, 
to  make  every  word  a  wound.  These  wounds  must  be 
gentle,  though.  He  reminded  himself  of  that.  They 
must  be  like  steel-thrusts  that  creep  swiftly  through  the 
flesh,  and  only  make  their  pang  known  as  the  knife  is 
withdrawn. 

As  he  raised  the  knocker  of  her  door  he  shuddered, 
and  a  momentary  loathing  for  what  he  was  about  to  do 
overcame  and  sickened  him.  But  he  scorned  the  emo 
tion  with  a  forced  smile,  and,  taking  the  brass  figure  of 
the  reclining  lamb  serving  as  a  knocker,  in  his  hand 
again,  stoutly  sent  its  summons  through  the  almost 
empty  house.  He  went  up  the  step  and  past  the  woman 
who  came  to  the  door  without  a  word. 

"  Miss  Van  Cleef,"  he  said,  briefly,  as  he  began  to  rub 
his  snow-covered  boots  upon  the  mat. 

The  girl  vanished  silently,  keeping  her  wondering  eyes 
on  the  minister's  passion-charged  face. 

Constance  found  him  in  the  centre  of  the  parlor.  She 
went  quickly  to  him  with  the  smile  she  kept  for  him,  and 
took  his  listless  hand. 

"  You  do  not  look  well,"  she  said,  as  she  pushed  a 
chair  toward  him.  "  I  don't  wonder,  after  such  a  drive. 
What  made  you  take  it,  Mr.  Keator  ?  But  I  needn't  ask." 

She  seated  herself  and  awaited  his  answer  with  a 
memory  of  her  smile  upon  her  lips. 

Mr.  Keator  did  not  sit  down.  A  sense  of  the  bitter 
contrast  between  her  manner  and  his  inward  thoughts 
made  him  shudder.  But  he  turned  toward  her  with  a 
blank  look  as  she  asked  about  his  drive. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  301 

"  I  went  down  with  aunt  last  night  to  call  on  your 
sister.  That  is  how  I  knew,"  she  said,  vivaciously,  in 
reply  to  his  look. 

"  I  am  glad  you  called,"  returned  the  minister,  vaguely. 
"  I  want  you  to  know  her." 

"  You  can't  wish  it  so  much  as  I  do." 

"  No,  I  think  I  wish  it  more,"  quietly  opposed  he, 
drawing  nearer  to  her. 

He  felt  his  quick  heart-beats  shaking  the  hand  with 
which  he  leaned  upon  his  crutch,  as  he  stood  before  her. 
Suddenly  his  lips  compressed,  and  he  said  with  a  calm 
ness  which  even  to  him  was  frightful, 

"  I  have  determined  to  make  her  your  sister  as  well." 

The  blood  fled  from  Constance's  face,  and  she  sat 
staring  at  him  in  helpless  amazement  and  alarm. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  said,  "  to  ask  you  to  fulfil  your 
promise." 

He  would  have  given  much  at  the  moment  to  lend  to 
his  tone  the  indignation  of  his  scorn  for  her  imagined 
treason.  But  he  could  scarcely  raise  his  voice  above  a 
whisper. 

If  he  wished  to  make  a  visible  effect  upon  Constance 
he  was  not  disappointed.  She  still  sat  staring  at  him  in 
stony  wonder.  He  was  fascinated  and  then  half  appalled 
by  her  fixed  gaze.  What  could  be  her  thoughts  ?  He 
turned  away,  setting  his  teeth.  He  tried  to  feel  that  she 
was  suffering  properly  ;  that  she  deserved  it.  But  his 
lively  love  would  not  permit  him  to  exult  in  her  pain  ; 
instead,  he  found  himself  foolishly  pained  with  her,  and, 
irresistibly  impelled,  glanced  again  toward  where  she  sat. 
Until  he  died  Mr.  Keator  did  not  forget  the  heavenly 
look  of  pity  on  her  relaxed  and  shining  face.  It  beamed 
from  it  in  a  soft  glory,  and  seemed  to  make  an  atmos- 


302  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

phere  about  him.  He  sat  down  with  a  sudden  giddi 
ness. 

"  You  do  not  mean  it !  Say  you  do  not  mean  it,  Mr. 
Keator  !  "  she  was  crying. 

With  all  his  indignation  in  his  voice  the  minister 
answered, 

"  I  should  be  guilty  of  a  falsehood.  I  never  meant 
anything  more  positively." 

A  look  of  anguish  crossed  Constance's  face. 

"  You  have  considered  ? "  she  asked,  hesitatingly. 

"  I  have  considered,"  repeated  Mr.  Keator,  unyield 
ingly. 

She  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  perplexed  dread.  A 
lump  hung  in  her  throat.  She  could  not  speak.  But  she 
commanded  herself  proudly. 

"  You  make  your  request  suddenly,"  she  said,  with  a 
wan  smile.  "  Give  me  time  to  consider."  But  after  a 
moment  she  cried  wearily,  "  Ah,  it's  no  use  !  I  come 
around  always  to  the  same  thing.  I  don't  understand," 
she  exclaimed,  passing  her  hand  over  her  eyes  in  a  dazed 
way. 

"You  can  understand  that  you  are  under  an  obliga 
tion,"  he  said,  with  effort.  "  I  ask  you  to  fulfil  it." 

"Obligation  ! — fulfil!"  she  whispered,  bewilderedly. 
"  Forgive  me  for  repeating  your  words.  I  can't  seem  to 
make  them  real  to  myself.  I — I  know  what  you  mean," 
she  told  him.  "  But  I  can't  believe  it  is  you  who  say  it. 
This  is  not  my  Mr.  Keator." 

Despite  his  righteous  anger  the  minister  could  not 
meet  her  unclouded  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  mask,"  she  said.  "  Tear  it  away,  Mr. 
Keator.  I  still  believe  in  you." 

"  Do  not  venture  to  talk  of  my  mask  !  "  he  answered, 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  303 

hoarsely,  as  he  rose  and  caught  his  crutch  with  an  angry 
grasp. 

Constance  gazed  at  him  in  dumb  horror. 

"What  shall  I  talk  of  ?  "  exclaimed  she,  after  a  mar 
velling  pause. 

She  also  rose  slowly  and  faced  him. 

"  Talk  of  your  pledge  to  me  !  "  he  cried,  sharply. 
His  mild  eyes  flashed.  "  Tell  me  whether  you  mean  to 
keep  it !  " 

The  uncertainty,  the  perplexity,  the  wandering  pity 
went  out  of  Constance's  face.  She  gathered  herself  and 
confronted  him  proudly. 

"  Did  you  think  I  would  break  my  word  ? "  she  asked 
him,  with  scorn.  "  You  are  indeed  not  the  Mr.  Keator 
I  have  known  and  admired,  and  pinned  my  faith  to. 
Don't  suppose  that  I  do  not  understand  now,"  she  went 
on,  swiftly.  "I  never  understood  anything  with  such 
dreadful  clearness.  But  you  knew  why  I  could  not  com 
prehend — why  I  would  not.  It  was  my  faith  in  you.  I 
could  not  believe  it.  It  was  the  standard  which  you  had 
given  me.  I  could  not  think  all  your  life,  even  at  your 
bidding,  a  ghastly  lie." 

Mr.  Keator  shrank  at  the  words,  and  she  turned  away 
for  an  instant  to  hide  her  shameful  tears. 

"  You  wrong  me — you  wrong  me  cruelly,"  he  said, 
with  sad  calmness  ;  but  he  would  not  bring  his  indict 
ment  against  her.  "  One  of  us  must  forbear,"  he  said  to 
himself.  And  indeed  he  was  too  much  grieved  to  speak. 

"  You  are  scarcely  the  one  to  speak  of  wrong,"  cried 
Constance  in  answer  to  him.  "  Is  it  no  wrong  to  me  that 
you  win  such  a  promise  as  that  I  gave,  from  my  trust  in 
you,  only  to  abuse  my  good-wiil  ?  I  would  give  that 
promise  again,  Mr.  Keator.  Do  not  think  I  repent  it. 


304  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

But  it  would  be  not  only  because  it  would  be  sweet  to 
help  you  ;  but  because  of  my  faith  that  you  would  not 
suffer  me  to  help  you  in  a  matter  like  that  to  my  own 
cost." 

Mr.  Keator  was  touched.  He  could  bear  her  indigna 
tion  even  when  it  seemed  most  genuine,  but  this  half 
appeal  searched  his  heart.  Yet  there  was  no  gentleness 
in  his  voice  as  he  said  sternly, 

"  I  was  worthy  of  that  faith.     I  had  the  right  to  it." 

"  Ah,  was  I  not  sure  of  that  when  we  made  our  agree 
ment  there  in  the  garden,  Mr.  Keator?  But  what  shall 
I  think  now?"  The  minister  turned  away  and  bit  his 
lip,  while  she  went  on  as  if  with  a  fresh  impulse.  "  Dear 
Mr.  Keator,"  she  said  simply,  "that  agreement  of  ours 
was  not  a  usual  one.  It  was  not  one  that  a  common  man 
would  have  had  your  need  for  ;  and — and  perhaps  not 
one  that  a  woman  who  cared  less  for  you  would  have 
consented  to.  Oh  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  little  deprecatory 
accent  as  she  saw  his  flush.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  say 
that — or  at  least  not  what  that  seems  to  say.  I  did  not 
intend  to  say  that  it  was  generous,  or  fine  in  me.  You 
can't  think  I  have  ever  felt  that." 

"  Do  not  cheapen  it.  It  was  fine,"  asserted  Mr. 
Keator,  without  emotion. 

"  No,  no  ;  it  was  not.  It  was  what  any  woman  would 
have  done — if  she  knew  you.  But,  Mr.  Keator,  it  was 
not  an  ordinary  contract — that  to  which  we  bound  our 
selves.  That  is  what  I  am  trying  to  say  :  and  we  are 
under  obligation  to  each  other  to  keep  its  terms  by  so 
much  the  more  sacredly." 

It  was  a  sore  temptation  to  retort  upon  her ;  to  ask 
how  she  had  kept  its  terms.  But  Mr.  Keator  held  his 
peace.  He  had  grown  afraid  to  speak.  He  had  resolved 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  305 

that  he  would  not  soil  his  lips  with  the  charge  which  in 
his  first  anger  he  had  meant  to  bring  against  her  ;  and  if 
he  spoke  he  did  not  know  what  he  might  say. 

"  Ah,"  cried  Constance,  at  his  silence,  "  you  do  not  care 
for  that !  Am  I  wholly  to  lose  my  ideal  Mr.  Keator?" 

Her  ideal !  And  what  of  his  ?  He  smiled  wretchedly. 
Again  he  did  not  answer.  Her  false  seeming  frankness, 
her  hollow  appeals  were  hardening  him  against  her.  He 
was  so  filled  with  abhorrence  of  her  studied  falseness 
that  he  began  to  find  himself  indifferent  as  to  the  issue 
of  the  question  between  them.  He  had  come  to  make 
her  pay  a  penalty  ;  but  perhaps  she  was  not  even  worth 
punishing.  He  turned  away  from  her,  weary  at  heart, 
while  she  went  on. 

"  Mr.  Keator,  do  you  remember  how  you  took  pains  to 
picture  this  position  to  me  before  you  would  let  me 
promise  ?  It  was  admirably  fair  and  generous  in  you,  I 
thought,  at  the  time.  I  can  almost  remember  the  words. 
Wait  a  moment."  She  glanced-at  him  doubtfully  as  she 
repeated  :  " '  Promise,'  you  begged, '  that  if  I  come  to  you 
and  say  I  have  failed — I  have  given  up  my  ministry — I 
offer  you  a  life  beggared  of  everything  that  makes  life 
worth  while; — of  deliberate  malice  divorced  from  all  good 
and  noble  things  except  my  love — you  will  submit  your 
self  to  the  lot.'  Do  you  remember,  Mr.  Keator  ?  And 
do  you  think  it  strange  that  I  hesitate  to  believe  you 
have  fallen  to  that  ? " 

Mr.  Keator  was  greatly  disturbed.  As  she  began  to 
repeat  his  words  he  had  gone  over  and  stood  by  the 
fireplace,  holding  his  crutch  in  his  hand  and  leaning  an 
elbow  against  one  of  the  supports  of  the  high  mantel. 
His  face,  as  she  finished,  was  bent  upon  his  arm.  He 
bit  his  lip  and  stared  into  the  fire. 


306  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  I  give  you  up,"  he  said,  at  length,  huskily. 

He  did  not  raise  his  head. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  resign  you.     I  surrender  my  claim." 

''  I  can't  let  you  do  that,"  she  returned,  briefly. 

He  had  thought  that  the  occurrences  of  the  last  half 
hour  had  killed  all  his  tenderness  for  her.  But  at  this, 
with  the  fatuity  of  his  love,  he  started  and  went  toward 
her. 

"  Why,  Constance  ?  Why  ? "  he  asked,  agitatedly. 

"  It  is  not " — she  hesitated  a  moment,  then  dealt  him 
the  blow  very  gently — "  for  the  reason  you  think." 

Mr.  Keator  turned  upon  his  crutch  and  went  swiftly 
back  to  the  fireplace. 

"  Pardon  me,"  she  begged  ;  "  I  did  not  mean'  to 
wound  you." 

"  Oh,  I  know  !  I  know  !  I  have  always  understood. 
Surely  you  have  not  left  me  in  doubt.  Only  a  fool's 
fancy  could  have  deceived  me,  even  for  the  instant." 

Constance  was  pained,  but  she  said,  quietly, 

"  I  was  only  about  to  say  that  since  you  have  made 
the  proposition  it  is  for  me  to  insist  upon  it.  I  cannot 
honorably  allow  you  to  retreat.  I  shall  keep  my  word 
to  the  utmost  letter." 

Mr.  Keator  looked  from  side  to  side  in  restless  misery. 
He  took  up  his  crutch,  however,  almost  immediately  and 
came  over  to  where  she  sat,  with  the  energy  of  her  state 
ment  still  alive  in  her  eyes. 

"  Constance,"  he  said,  "  have  some  pity.  You  do  not 
know  .  .  .  Let  things  remain  as  if  this  had  never  been." 

Constance  shook  her  head  with  a  troubled  gesture. 

"Things  can  never  be  as  they  were  before,"  she 
answered. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  307 

"  Is  it  that  you  wish  to  humble  me  before  you 
yield  ? "  He  stretched  forth  his  hand.  "  See,  I  beg  it 
of  you." 

She  turned  away  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  nothing  is  due  to  me  ?  "  she  asked, 
tremulously. 

"  Everything.  I  apologize.  I  abase  myself.  I  will 
go  away."  A  loathing  for  his  part  in  the  affair  suddenly 
seized  him.  "  How  can  I  tell  you  how  I  hate  myself 
when  I  think  that  I  have  allowed  a  wicked,  momentary 
infirmity  to  triumph  over  my  love  for  you  ?  To  have 
abused  your  faith  in  me,  your  noble  generosity ;  to  have 
lived  to  shock  you  by  the  cowardly  use  of  a  power  you 
had  given  me  !  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  happened.  God 
and  his  angels  seemed  to  desert  me.  I  came  here  in  a 
sort  of  madness."  He  drew  nearer  to  her.  "  You  have 
the  best  right  to  your  revenge,"  he  said.  "  I  ask  you 
not  to  take  it." 

Constance  had  controlled  herself  again  and  answered 
with  comparative  calm, 

"  Don't  attribute  that  motive  to  me,  Mr.  Keator.  It 
is  only  justice  that  I  am  trying  to  do — justice  to  yourself 
and  me.  Heaven  knows  it's  not  easy.  Pray  don't  make 
it  harder  !  You  have  gone  too  far  for  either  of  us  to 
retreat.  We  must  leave  it  now  with  God." 

She  spoke  solemnly,  and  with  a  determination  which 
informed  Mr.  Keator's  sensitive  knowledge  of  her  that 
the  final  word  had  been  spoken.  He  turned  away  sick 
at  heart. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  Very  well,"  consented  he,  hoarsely,  at  last.  "  I  will 
see  that  the  lot  is  tried  at  once." 

Constance  rose  quickly,  with  a  glad  smile  upon  her 


308  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

face,  and  held  out  both  her  hands.  He  limped  forward 
to  take  them. 

"Ah,  there  spoke  my  Mr.  Keator  !  " 

She  smiled  upon  him  and  pressed  his  hands. 

"  Some  day,"  she  said,  "  I  hope  to  be  able  to  think  of 
you  as  of  old — as  I  did  before — before  this  shock."  She 
averted  her  head  an  instant.  "  But  it  would  be  mockery 
to  say  that  I  do  now.  You  understand,  and — and  if  this 
comes  about — if  the  lot  is  favorable  to  you,  you  must 
not  expect  too  much  of  me." 

"  I  expect  nothing.  I  ask  nothing,"  answered  Mr. 
Keator,  with  dignity.  "  Good-bye  !  " 

He  put  forth  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  returned  she,  absently. 

He  limped  to  the  door.  She  remained  standing  as  he 
had  left  her  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  But  as  he 
reached  the  threshold, 

"  Mr.  Keator,"  she  called,  softly,  going  after  him. 

"  Yes." 

He  turned  back. 

"  Do  you  think  that  God  truly  works  through  the  lot  ? 
Have  you  faith  in  it  ?  " 

He  looked  long  and  hungrily  at  her.  He  did  not 
answer,  and  for  a  moment  she  thought  that  she  had 
wounded  him  again.  But  he  replied  at  length, 

"I  think  that  He  truly  works  through  the  lot.  We  are 
both  safe  in  His  hands.  '  The  lot  is  cast  into  the  lap  : 
but  the  whole  disposing  thereof  is  of  the  Lord.' " 

Constance  said  nothing  and  after  a  moment  she  let 
him  go. 

But  she  went  back  into  the  room  and  flung  herself 
upon  a  couch  in  an  agony  of  tears,  calling  upon  March's 
name. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  309 

Mr.  Keator  was  horribly  unhappy,  and  sore  and  grieved, 
as  he  went  stumbling  down  the  snow  piled  street.  He 
did  not  know  that  he  had  been  spared  the  ultimate 
calamity.  It  would  have  killed  him  to  see  her  grief  for 
March. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  FACTIOUS  disposition  had  begun  to  display  itself 
among  the  colonists  at  Gerrit  within  a  month  after 
March's  departure.  It  was  an  ill-assorted  company,  and 
it  would,  perhaps,  not  have  held  together  in  any  event. 
But  March's  going  hastened  the  inevitable  rupture. 
While  he  was  among  them,  guiding,  smoothing,  energizing 
their  daily  work,  the  opposing  elements  were  curbed. 
They  respected  his  authority  and  tacitly  owned  their 
obligation  of  gratitude  to  him.  For,  in  fact,  March 
owned  Gerrit  undividedly,  and  they  dwelt  upon  his  land 
as  his  guests.  They  could  not  blind  themselves  to  the 
generosity  which  had  assumed  all  the  risks  ;  and  this 
made  a  bond  of  so  delicate  a  nature  that  the  hardiest 
of  them  would  have  hesitated  to  break  it  while  he  was 
with  them.  Lincoln,  it  is  true,  was  his  lieutenant,  and  as 
such  inspired  a  certain  amount  of  respect ;  but  his 
authority  wore  smooth  with  the  loss  of  novelty,  and  he 
began  to  find  himself  in  a  perplexing  condition. 

From  Constance,  before  her  departure,  Lincoln  had 
studiously  concealed  his  difficulties  ;  and  indeed  the 
thriving  village,  set  in  its  peaceful  valley  and  filled  with 
laborers  constant  in  gathering  home  their  first  prosperous 
harvest,  might  very  well  have  flattered  the  casual  eye  as 
a  vision  of  contentment.  Constance,  at  all  events,  went 
away  untroubled  by  the  forebodings  which  would  have 


A   VICTORIO  US  DEFEA  T.  311 

tormented  her  had  she  known  the  real  posture  of  the 
enterprise  at  Gerrit.  After  her  arrival  in  Judea  she 
received  very  regular  reports  of  the  progress  of  the 
colony.  She  had  had  at  all  times  since  March's  de 
parture,  a  sense  of  responsibility  for  its  well-being.  She 
felt  more  distinctly  and  weightily  than  she  remembered 
feeling  of  any  other  commission,  that  it  was  her  personal 
charge — a  charge  of  which  she  greatly  wished  to  render 
a  good  account.  It  was  she  who  had  sent  March  away, 
and  if  any  failure  befell  because  of  that,  whom  else 
should  she  blame  ? 

With  this  idea  of  her  stewardship,  she  had  asked 
Lincoln  as  an  especial  favor  to  keep  her  acquainted  with 
all  that  went  on  within  the  little  world  of  which  he  was 
governor  pro  tempore.  Lincoln  was,  however,  at  first  able 
to  reconcile  it  with  his  theories  of  the  friendly  office  to 
tell  her  somewhat  less  than  all.  His  weekly  letter  had, 
indeed,  twice  contained  vague  hints  of  a  dissatisfaction, 
which  would  doubtless  soon  be  quelled.  But  nothing 
else  had  prepared  her  for  the  startling  letter  which  she 
held  in  her  hand  as  she  sat  at  breakfast  with  her  aunt  on 
the  morning  following  Mr.  Keator's  visit. 

"  Mr.  Lincoln  says,"  she  told  Mrs.  Echols,  as  she 
thoughtfully  folded  the  paper,  "  that  there  is  a  kind  of 
mutiny  in  progress  at  Gerrit.  Think  how  it  will  grieve 
him  !  " 

Mrs.  Echols  did  not  ask  for  whom  the  pronoun  might 
stand. 

"  It  is  not  as  if  he  were  here,"  she  admitted,  with 
intelligence. 

"  No,"  repeated  Constance,  "  it's  not  as  if  he  were  here. 
Oh,  I  trust  it  is  not  serious." 

"Yes,  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  her  aunt,  with  the  unction 


312  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

that  the  phrase  has  in  the  South.  "  It  must  have  come 
up  without  warning,"  she  added.  "  Mr.  Lincoln  would 
have  written  if  it  had  been  brewing  long,  I  should  think." 

She  looked  questioningly  at  Constance.  Her  niece 
returned  her  glance  with  a  hesitation  born  of  her  doubtful 
tone. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "What  do  you  think?" 
she  begged,  earnestly. 

"  You  know  better  than  I.  You  are  almost  a  colonist 
yourself,  dear.  You  ought  to  understand  these  things." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  I  don't.  Oh,  aunt,  I'm  greatly  troubled 
about  it  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  an  alarmed  perplexity  not 
common  with  her. 

She  paused  a  moment,  drawing  the  letter  nervously 
through  her  fingers. 

"  You  know  how  I  feel  !  "  she  burst  out. 

"  I  can  imagine,"  returned  Mrs.  Echols,  sympatheti 
cally. 

"  Well,  that's  it.  It's  not  my  personal  concern  in  the 

welfare  of  Gerrit  so  much  as Oh,  you  know  I  sent 

him  away  !  If  anything  happens  through  his  absence, 
how  can  I  ever  forgive  myself  ? " 

"  By  remembering  that  you  meant  right,  I  hope,  my 
dear.  But  that's  not  the  question.  Nothing  must 
happen." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  think.  But  how ?  Oh,  aunt, 

let  us  go  to-day." 

"  My  dear  child,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  I've  just 
written  Francis  we  should  remain  a  week  longer.  We 
should  surprise  him  out  of  a  whole  day's  fishing." 

"  Don't  throw  obstacles  in  the  way,"  she  entreated, 
rising  with  determination.  "  I  must  go." 

"  What  can  we  do  ?  " 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  313 

"  Never  mind.  We  will  go.  It  will  be  a  satisfaction 
to  be  there.  It  is  intolerable  to  stay." 

Mrs.  Echols  did  not  know  of  the  occasion  which  lent 
anguishing  weight  to  her  niece's  desire  to  leave  Judea, 
but  she  perceived  the  genuineness  of  her  anxiety,  what 
ever  its  cause,  and  she  was  both  too  reasonable  and  too 
much  attached  to  her  to  hinder  her. 

It  was  a  crowded  day,  for  their  passage  was  to  be 
engaged  in  the  coach,  and  all  that  they  had  brought  with 
them  was  to  be  packed.  The  furniture  was  also  to  be 
re-enshrouded,  and  the  rooms  once  more  neatly  ordered 
and  left  to  the  friendship  of  the  echoes.  The  burden 
which  these  cares  imposed  upon  Constance  was  suf 
ficiently  severe,  and  when  it  was  all  over,  the  house 
closed,  and  their  boxes  and  packages  carried  down  and 
strapped  upon  the  coach,  she  sank  within  that  friendly 
refuge  thoroughly  exhausted. 

As  the  landlord  of  the  inn  came  out  to  give  his  last 
messages  to  the  driver,  her  thoughts  went  back,  despite 
her  fatigue,  to  the  time  of  her  last  departure  from  Judea. 
She  recalled  Mr.  Keator's  ignorant  efforts  for  the  com 
fort  of  her  Aunt  Cynthia  and  herself  with  a  sad  smile,  and 
in  her  memory  there  rose  with  painful  vividness  the 
picture  of  the  minister  standing  by  the  coach  door,  with 
her  hand  in  his  and  his  head  bared.  The  eager  look  of 
fidelity  and  confident  courage  on  his  face  returned  to  her 
with  a  pang.  She  remembered  the  strong,  calm  glance 
with  which  he  had  answered  her  foolishly  trusting  phrase, 
"  You  must  not  fail."  And  then  he  had  said  :  "  Not 
while  you  trust  me."  Surely  she  had  trusted  him,  and 
for  the  fiftieth  time  she  asked  herself  what  had  tempted 
him  to  this  fatal  lapse. 

In  the  midst  of  her  great  misery  on  March's  account, 


314  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

and  on  her  own,  it  may  seem  strange  that  she  should 
have  devoted  much  thought  to  this  problem.  But  the 
long  watches  of  the  night  before,  in  which  she  had  been 
taught  through  mortal  pain  the  intensity  of  her  love  for 
March,  had  instructed  her  to  avoid  the  subject  which 
engrossed  all  her  womanly  fears,  and  she  was  glad  to 
occupy  her  mind  with  anything.  She  had  grown  ab 
solutely  afraid  to  challenge  the  future,  to  ask  a  question 
of  the  threatening  possibilities  of  the  coming  week.  The 
contingency  to  which  she  had  yielded  so  readily  before 
Mr.  Keator,  which,  in  her  pride,  she  had  forced,  repre 
sented  itself  to  her  calmer  thought  as  simply  appalling. 
She  had  no  idea  of  retreating  ;  but  her  fancy,  when  she 
let  it  play  about  the  oracle  which  Mr.  Keator  was  to 
invoke,  filled  her  with  dread. 

Her  concern  was  rather  for  March  than  for  herself. 
How  would  he  support  an  adverse  decision  of  the  lot  ? 
Might  he  not  justly  accuse  her  ?  She  had  warned  him  ;  but 
if  she  had  supposed  this  among  possible  events,  ought  she 
not  to  have  done  more  ?  She  could  not  rememberwhat  she 
had  thought  when  he  had  asked  for  her  love  ;  she  only 
knew  that  she  had  felt  implicit  faith  in  Mr.  Keator.  And 
yet  as  she  looked  about  to  find  food  for  the  self-accusa 
tion,  which  was  a  kind  of  desperate  pleasure,  it  seemed 
an  incredible  innocence  that  she  should  not  have  foreseen 
that  a  man  filled  with  such  a  passion  as  his  must  fail  in 
the  difficult  temptation  he  had  set  himself.  But  she 
always  returned  to  her  old  belief  in  him,  and  when  she 
asked  that  to  say  how  she  could  have  suspected  him  of 
a  wrong,  under  whatever  trial,  silence  answered  her.  She 
knew  that  she  could  not  have  had  less  than  the  unques 
tioning  confidence  in  him  which  he  had  abused  ;  and  her 
feeling  toward  him,  as  constantly  since  their  interview, 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  315 

was  one  of  honest  grief  for  his  fall  rather  than  resentment 
for  her  own  injury. 

She  could  not  help  clinging  to  the  frank  liking  and 
esteem  for  him,  which  seemed  to  have  been  immemorially 
part  of  her  nature,  and  even  in  her  anger  she  had  known 
that  something,  which  he  would  not  say,  extenuated  his 
ruinous  failure.  Her  imagination  could  not  go  so  far  as  to 
offer  a  vision  of  herself  as  his  wife  when  he  should  have 
abolished  the  Mr.  Keator  she  had  known  by  abandoning 
the  ministry.  She  preferred  rather  to  conjure  herself 
back  to  the  time  when  she  had  been  able  to  look  upon  the 
spectacle  of  herself  as  his  wife,  at  certain  rare  moments, 
with  a  vague,  if  alloyed,  satisfaction  ;  when  occasionally 
it  had  seemed  to  her  that  his  persistence  might  some  day 
accomplish  its  end  for  lack  of  rivalry. 

But  since  then  Mr.  March  had  come,  and  love,  with  its 
gift  of  new  eyes,  had  so  belittled  these  easy  theories  that, 
as  she  looked  back  upon  them,  she  used  her  compassion. 
The  thought  was  fruitful  in  memories,  and  all  her  mem 
ories  seemed  to  be  full  of  March.  As  the  bitter  fear  that 
he  was  now  forever  lost  to  her  recurred,  notwithstanding 
her  resolve,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  luxury  of  her  sor 
row,  and  tried  to  think  that  the  treasured  fact  of  love, 
even  renounced  love,  would  always  console  her  pain. 
But  at  the  moment  it  was  itself  a  far  too  painful 
thought  to  be  long  pursued.  She  found  time,  however, 
to  upbraid  herself  for  the  pride  which  had  hidden  from 
him  the  full  measure  of  her  affection  and  to  determine, 
that  if,  when  they  met  again,  she  was  not  Mr.  Keator's 
wife  he  should  know  how  incomparably  dear  he  was  to 
her.  She  was  suddenly  seized,  from  she  knew  not 
whither,  with  the  whimsical  fancy  that  she  should  find 
him  at  Quinnimont.  He  had  come  as  unexpectedly 


316  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

before.  She  longed  to  cast  some  of  her  wearisome  bur 
den  upon  him.  In  his  presence  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
should  be  strong  for  anything  the  future  held. 

She  tried  to  scorn  the  hungry  wish.  But  next  day 
when  they  found  Lincoln  awaiting  them  in  the  coach-yard, 
a  feeling  of  desolate  disappointment  came  over  her  when 
she  saw  that  March  was  not  standing  beside  him.  As 
Lincoln  drove  them  to  the  house  in  which  Constance  had 
spent  so  many  happy  days,  and  in  which  love  had  first 
come  to  her,  a  premonition  of  a  future  crowded  with  unde- 
sired  gifts  of  days  which  would  have  lost  all  value,  weighed 
upon  her.  The  happy  days  seemed  permanently  over  ;  per 
haps  this  was  what  .older  people  meant  by  experience. 
It  was  certainly  not  what  she  had  meant  ;  but  she  remem 
bered  how  she  had  sighed  for  it  even  if  it  should  prove  all 
wounds.  So  far  it  had  been  very  generous  to  her,  and 
she  bravely  said  to  herself  that  she  must  take  the  evil 
with  the  good.  Here  was  an  opportunity  to  show  that 
she  had  been  in  earnest  in  her  willingness  to  pay  for 
experience  at  any  price  ;  in  her  readiness  to  prove  herself 
worthy  to  know  life.  She  resolved  to  keep  a  good  heart, 
come  what  would. 

Lincoln  told  them  that  the  trouble  at  Gerrit  had  some 
what  subsided,  but  that  he  feared  the  dissension  beyond 
remedy. 

"  I  wish  March  were  here  !  "  exclaimed  the  young  man. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  murmured  Mrs.  Echols,  fervently  ;  but 
Constance  only  looked  at  him  anxiously  as  he  added, 

"  Perhaps  he  may  come  yet  in  time.  That  is  what  I 
have  been  hoping  for.  This  difficulty  began  early  in  De 
cember — before  your  departure,"  he  confessed,  as  he 
chirruped  to  the  horse.  "  I  thought  it  better  not  to  write 
to  you,  but  I  did  write  March  advising  him  to  return  at 


A    VIC  TORIO  US  DEFEA  T.  317 

once.  As  I  reckon  it,  he  could  have  been  here  almost  a 
week  ago  with  favorable  winds  ;  but  making  every  allow 
ance  he  must  be  here  within  a  few  days.  I  should  have 
given  up  the  contest  last  week  if  I  had  not  held  on  to  that 
hope." 

Constance,  remembering  his  agreement  with  her,  had 
a  sober  doubt ;  yet  her  heart  exulted  even  at  the  possi 
bility. 

On  the  second  day  after  their  arrival  Lincoln  came 
over  to  call  upon  them,  and  Constance  was  rejoiced,  but 
not  greatly  surprised  to  see  him  accompanied  by  March. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

CONSTANCE  never  understood  how  Mrs.  Echols  and 
Lincoln  so  swiftly  made  known  their  mutual  sympathy 
for  the  situation,  and  vanished  from  the  room  in  which 
March  found  her  ;  but  at  the  moment  she  was  not 
inclined  to  question  anything.  She  glided  into  his  arms 
and  sobbed  out  the  story  of  her  sorrows  on  his  breast. 

She  went  over  the  history  of  Mr.  Keator's  fall  and  of 
his  demand  upon  her.  Of  the  lot  she  had  not  spoken 
when  she  told  him  of  her  pledge  in  the  fly  gallery,  and  she 
did  not  venture  yet  to  make  known  to  him  the  arbitra 
ment  to  which  she  had  entrusted  her  fate  and  his. 

March  was,  however,  too  much  occupied  with  the  pleas 
ure  of  seeing  her  again  to  make  far-reaching  inquiries, 
or  even  to  trouble  himself  as  much  as  might  have  been 
expected  regarding  the  main  disaster.  Indeed  he  could 
find  heart  to  be  glad  to  see  her  overtaken  by  an  infirmity  so 
little  part  of  her  usual  disposition.  His  love  was  founded 
upon  his  sense  of  her  unlikeness  to  other  women  ;  but 
with  the  curious  illogic  of  the  passion  he  was  glad  to  find 
her  like  other  women  in  her  womanliness.  Her  weakness 
endeared  her  to  him,  and  the  affection  which  he  had 
curbed  for  months  overflowed  in  his  caresses.  Just  then 
it  was  the  richest  privilege  in  the  world  to  comfort  her, 
and  he  did  not  suffer  his  connection  with  the  cause  of 
her  grief  to  chasten  his  pleasure. 

"  Hush,  darling,  hush  !  "  he  whispered,  as  she  finished 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  319 

her  recital.  "  What  difference  does  it  make  ?  You  still 
care  a  little  for  me,  don't  you  ? " 

She  held  him  off  quickly  with  a  light  of  passionate 
devotion  in  her  eyes  that  told  him  more  than  he  had 
hitherto  been  allowed  to  know.  It  touched  him  with 
rapture. 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Then,  dearest,  there  is  no  other  fact  in  the  world. 
How  greedy  we  should  be  to  ask  anything  more  !  " 

He  smiled  upon  her  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  she  vaguely  denied. 

But  the  glorified  light  on  her  face  did  not  fade,  and 
she  devoured  his  glance  with  an  almost  fearful  trust. 

"  I  haven't  told  you,"  he  said,  as  he  led  her  to  the  sofa. 
"  My  mother  is  charmed.  As  for  my  father  " — he  paused 
with  a  smile — "  my  father  has  given  me  an  excellent  pre 
cedent  for  marrying  an  American." 

"  I  fear  you'll  never  marry  this  one,"  she  whispered, 
with  a  pained  little  laugh. 

"  You  don't  know  her  nor  me,"  March  returned,  with 
a  fond  pressure  of  her  hand. 

"  But,  Mr.  Keator  !  " 

"  Yes,"  owned  March,  thoughtfully.     "  Mr.  Keator  !  " 

"  You  can't  fancy  how  I  have  longed  to  see  you  since 
it  happened  !  " 

"  You  don't  blame  me,  then  ?  " 

"  Blame  you  !  " 

"  I  hesitated  to  break  our  agreement.  Nothing  less 
imperative  than  this  trouble  at  Gerrit  would  have  brought 
me  over." 

"  I  don't  need  proofs  of  your  truth  and  loyalty,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  did  need  you.  So  they  did  at  Gerrit.  I 
cared  almost  as  much  that  you  should  come  for  that  as 
21 


320  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

for  me.  I  can't  forgive  myself  that  it  should  have  hap 
pened,  but  if  you  had  not  come  in  time  I  could  never 
have  forgiven  you." 

"  Did  you  feel  your  charge  so  much  as  that,  dear  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  I  should  have  abandoned  the  experiment  be 
fore  I  left  if  I  had  supposed  it  would  burden  you  so.  It 
would  merely  have  hastened  the  end." 

"  Why — why,  you  don't  mean ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  March,  quickly,  as  if  the  wound  were  still 
unpleasantly  fresh. 

"  You  don't  intend  giving  it  up  ?  "  she  half  entreated. 

March  turned  away. 

"  I  have  given  it  up,"  he  answered,  with  sad  brevity. 

She  laid  her  hand  softly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Poor  Owen  !  "  she  said. 

"  No,  you  mustn't  pity  me.  All  reasonable  persons 
would  say  that  I  ought  to  be  congratulated." 

He  stroked  her  hand  thoughtfully.  Then  he  gave  her 
a  swift  smile  as  he  looked  up  and  said, 

"  But  we  are  not  reasonable  people."  He  gave  a  sigh 
which  perhaps  stood  fora  mingled  emotion. 

"  No,"  said  Constance,  calmly.  "  It's  much  pleas- 
anter,"  she  added. 

"  Yes  :  but  it  has  its  disadvantages.  If  I  were  not 
unreasonable  I  should  think  myself  well  rid  of  a  foolish 
philactery.  As  it  is,  I  am  saddened — saddened  by  a 
diminution  of  my  faith  in  certain  possibilities,  of  course  ; 
but  chiefiy  that  these  men  should  lose  by  their  folly  all 
that  those  possibilities  might  have  done  for  them." 

"And  you  have  disbanded  the  colony?"  said  Con- 
"stance,  bringing  him  back  to  the  main  facts. 

"  Yes,  the  colonists  all  professed  to  be  very  sorry  and 
some  of  them  were  honestly  repentant  ;  but,  of  course, 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  321 

that  was  the  only  thing.  They  would  have  disbanded 
without  me.  I  don't  know  why  they  should  be  grieved 
when  I  save  them  the  trouble." 

"  They  loved  you,"  exclaimed  Constance. 

"  They  are  willing  that  I  should  bear  the  cost  of  their 
passage  home,"  said  March,  tersely. 

Constance  smiled. 

"  Well,  that  is  a  proof  of  liking,"  she  answered.  "  They 
wouldn't  let  every  one  do  that." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Owen,  dear,"  said  Constance,  at  length,  "  I  seem 
very  safe — very  securely  yours,  sitting  beside  you  here, 
don't  I  ?  But  you  don't  know  what  may  be  going  on  in 
Judea — even  at  this  moment." 

Her  voice  shook  and  she  made  the  first  advance  of 
her  life  in  running  her  hand  vaguely  over  his  head. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  tell  you — how  could  I  tell  you  ?  "  She 
drew  herself  away.  "  Owen,  Mr.  Keator  is  to  decide  it 
by  the  lot  !  " 

"  Constance  !  "  he  cried,  aghast,  as  he  started  up. 

"  I  feared  you  would  feel  so." 

She  bit  her  lip  and  tremulously  turned  her  face  to  the 
sofa-back.  He  took  her  gently  by  the  shoulder  and  drew 
her  about. 

"  Constance  !  Constance  dear,  don't  vex  yourself  about 
my  feelings.  Surely  you  have  enough  else.  But  why 
did  you  never  tell  me  that  this  blind  chance  was  to  be 
the  final  judge  between  us?  Why  did  you  leave  me  in 
ignorance  until  now  ?  " 

"  Until  now  it  was  never  important.  How  could  I 
dream  of  Mr.  Keator's  failure  ?  What  good  would  it  have 
done  you  ? "  cried  the  girl,  afflictedly.  "  And,  you 
remember,"  she  added,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  "  that 


322  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

you  were  interested  in  something  else  when  I  told  you 
the  story  in  the  fly-gallery  ?  " 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  dear ;  never  mind  !  We  have  the 
fact  now.  That  is  enough.  But  I  never  thought  of 
this  !  "  exclaimed  he,  heavily.  "  Do  you  think  I  should 
have  been  so  light-hearted  if  I  had  imagined  that  this 
was  all  our  happiness  hung  upon  ?  When  you  told  me 
just  now,  I  was  a  little  shocked  at  Mr.  Keator's  failure, 
but  I  was  not  surprised.  Perhaps  it  is  easier  for  me  to 
understand  it  than  for  you."  He  smiled  faintly.  "  In 
the  nature  of  things  you  can't  appreciate  the  temptation. 
Still,  I  thought  he  would  retreat." 

Constance  sighed,  remembering  how  he  had  endeav 
ored  to  retreat  and  how  she  had  prevented  him. 

"  Do  you  think  you  would  ?  "  she  asked  him,  with  mel 
ancholy  gayety. 

"  I'm  not  a  clergyman.  It's  not  a  question  of  sacri 
ficing  my  ministry." 

"  That  makes  it  harder.  But  he  won't  turn  back — not 
now." 

March  turned  away  desperately  and  went  over  to  the 
window.  The  ground  was  covered  with  snow,  and  the 
snowbirds  were  hopping  about  on  its  glistening  surface 
and  calling  one  another  from  the  gaunt  tree-tops. 

"  He  puts  it  beyond  reparation  by  this  public  exhibition. 
If  it  is  favorable  to  him — this  lottery — he  will  not  have  the 
surrender  of  his  ministry  to  restrain  him.  He  will  have 
lost  all  reason  for  remaining  in  the  Church  by  linking  your 
name  with  his  in  this  devilish  device  of  the  lot.  They  talk 
of  marriage  as  holy  !  Think  of  deciding  such  a  thing  by  the 
choice  of  bits  of  paper  !  It  is  childish  !  "  exclaimed  March, 
pacing  the  room,  "  It  is  hideous  !  " 

Constance  turned  her  anguished  face  to  him. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  323 

" '  The  lot  is  cast  into  the  lap,'  "  she  said,  gently,  with 
a  memory  of  Mr.  Keator's  solemn  quotation  ;  " '  but  the 
whole  disposing  thereof  is  of  the  Lord.'  " 

"  It  is  natural  that  they  should  defend  it  with  quota 
tions,"  returned  March.  "  It  must  seem  just  and  right 
to  them.  They  would  not  do  anything  that  did  not,  and 
no  doubt  it  is  as  good  a  way  as  another.  Marriages  must 
be  so  much  a  matter  of  chance,  in  any  event.  But  it's 
hard  !  " 

"  He  has  my  promise,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  You  must 
remember  that ;  and  whatever  the  failure  for  him  or  ruin 
for  us  we  mustn't  feel  that  he  is  going  beyond  that." 

Her  hands  were  locked  in  her  lap,  and  her  face  wore 
an  expression  of  acute  misery. 

He  sank  into  a  seat  beside  her  on  the  sofa  and  drew 
her  to  him. 

"  You  are  right,  darling  ;  you  are  always  right."  He 
kissed  her  softly.  "  And  I  am  wrong.  You  will  always 
find  me  so,  I  fear.  Perhaps  you  might  better  accept  Mr. 
Keator,  however  the  lot  decides." 

She  gave  him  an  indulgent  smile,  but  — "  Oh,  we 
mustn't  laugh,"  she  said;  "  Think  if  it  should  come 
true  !  " 

He  caught  her  closer. 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,  dearest.  Talk  of  death,  but  don't 
talk  of  my  losing  you  !  " 

A  light  knock  came  at  the  door  and  she  rose  and  took 
from  one  of  the  negro  servants  the  mail-bag  which  Mr. 
Echols  sent  to  Quinnimont  daily.  Among  the  letters  she 
found  one  for  herself. 

"  It  is  from  Mr.  Keator,"  she  exclaimed,  softly,  as  she 
turned  it  over. 

March  waited  silently  while  she  opened  it. 


324  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  It  must  have  been  written  the  day  after  we  left,"  she 
murmured,  as  she  began  to  read. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  !  "  asked  March,  at  length.  "  Does 
he  relent  ? " 

She  gave  a  hard  little  laugh. 

"  I  have  arranged  all  as  you  wish,"  she  read.  "  We 
shall  be  taken  together  in  the  lot  on  Thursday.  I  will 
write." 

"  What  does  he  mean  ? — '  as  you  wish '  ? "  asked  March 
as  he  started  up. 

"  He  wanted  to  give  it  up — to  retreat.  When  he  had 
made  his  declaration  he  was  sorry  for  it.  But  then,  of 
course,  it  was  for  me  to  insist." 

"  And  you  insisted." 

"  Ah  !  you  don't  blame  me,  Owen  ?  You  wouldn't 
have  had  me  do  less  ?  " 

March  bit  his  lip.  He  was  a  man  and  a  lover  ;  and 
her  action  had  put  his  happiness  in  doubt — the  happiness 
of  both  in  cruel  jeopardy.  But  he  was  stronger  than 
that  selfish  sentiment.  "  Constance,"  he  whispered  im 
pulsively,  for  answer,  as  he  took  her  cheeks  between  his 
hands,  "you  are  wonderful.  It  will  always  be  my 
dearest  privilege  to  have  known  you,  even  though  we 
must  always  live  apart." 

She  smiled.     "  It  is  to-day,  you  know,"  she  said. 

"  Yes  ;  Thursday.  Even  now  they  may  be  deciding 
our  fate." 

"  We  shall  hear  Saturday,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  as 
he  drew  his  hands  away. 

"  Not  to  be  there  to  change  or  prevent :  that  is  the 
bitter  thing.  Oh,  Constance,"  he  cried,  "  it  is  intol 
erable  !  We  are  standing  by  here  with  tied  hands  and 
our  future  is  being  parcelled  out  to  us." 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  325 

"  But  parcelled  out  by  God,"  she  said,  wistfully. 
He  took  up  his  hat  and  coat.     Constance  did  not  at 
tempt  to  stay  him. 

"  Ah,  let  us  hope  so  !  "  he  said,  with  a  groan. 
He  stooped  and  kissed  her  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ROSE  came  into  the  library  in  her  working-apron  when 
she  had  heard  her  brother  enter  the  house  after  his 
visit  to  Constance.  He  was  sitting  in  his  leathern  chair 
with  his  head  bowed  upon  his  hand.  She  went  softly 
over  and  touched  him.  He  glanced  up  with  a  quick 
smile  and  drew  her  greedily  down  to  him.  He  felt  the 
isolation  which  follows  every  species  of  wrong.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  put  himself  at  odds  with  the 
world.  Rose  was  his  one  sure  friend.  She  was  a  com- 
•panion  sail  upon  a  sea  otherwise  frightfully  desolate. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  a  moment. 

"  You  would  rather  not  tell  me,  brother,"  she  said,  ever 
so  gently. 

"  How  do  you  guess  so  well,  little  sister  ? " 

She  nestled  against  him  on  the  great  arm-chair. 

"  Because  I  love  you,  I  think,"  she  answered,  as  she 
pressed  her  lips  to  his  forehead. 

He  took  her  hand. 

"  Always  love  me,  Rose.  Promise  me  that  you  will," 
he  begged. 

She  saw  the  piteous  earnestness  in  his  eyes.  She  per 
ceived  that  he  was  much  in  earnest. 

"  I  promise,"  returned  she,  simply. 

"  Whatever  befalls  ? " 

"  Whatever  befalls." 

"  Oh,  I  need  your  love,  Rose  !  I  shall  need  it  more 
and  more  now." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  327 

It  was  a  cruel  trial  to  restrain  the  questions  that  were 
on  her  lips.  She  was  deeply  concerned  ;  she  was  fearful 
of  she  knew  not  what.  But  she  bravely  curbed  her 
affectionate  curiosity. 

"  Remember  that  I  trust  you,"  was  all  she  said  ;  "  al 
ways  remember  that." 

"  Am  I  likely  to  forget  it  ?  It  is  because  I  am  sure  of 
your  trust  in  me  that  I  am  going  to  make  trial  of  it  for 
a  few  days.  Believe  in  me  for  as  long  as  that,  at  all 
events.  In  good  time  you  shall  know  all.  I  would  not 
hide  a  word  from  you.  But  now — I  shall  be  in  sore  need 
of  all  your  faith  in  me  for  a  day  or  two."  He  turned 
away  quickly.  "  I  cannot  cloud  it.  Bear  with  me  for  a 
little,  Rose." 

"  For  always,  brother,"  and  with  the  perfect  tact  of  her 
love  she  slipped  silently  out  of  the  room. 

Her  trust  indeed  sustained  Mr.  Keator  in  the  days 
which  followed.  It  was  the  single  beacon  by  which  he 
found  his  way  in  the  fog  which  life  had  suddenly  become. 

The  two  days  succeeding  Constance's  departure  were 
always  filled  to  his  memory  with  a  sickening  confusion  of 
thought.  His  mind  seemed  to  have  become  a  blank  ; 
but  it  was  the  sort  of  blank  on  which  delirium  writes  a 
thousand  irrelevancies  in  her  invisible  ink,  crossing  and 
recrossing;  then  burning  them  into  intelligibility,  and 
setting  them  instantly  fading  again.  His  brain  whirled. 
He  could  not  command  it  long  enough  to  make  with  him 
self  a  consecutive  argument  of  his  situation.  He  came 
to  his  meals  in  a  daze,  and  harassed  Rose  by  sitting 
vacantly  silent  and  eating  nothing  of  the  delicacies  with 
which  she  strove  to  tempt  him.  When  he  kissed  her 
good-night  she  could  have  wept  for  his  haggard  face. 

Conrad  tried  to  make  him  aware  of  his  sympathy  with 


328  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

a  trouble  touching  which  he  could  frame  no  guess.  But 
his  well-intentioned  kindness  failed,  as  it  had  failed  with 
March.  Conrad  came  in  secret  to  Mr.  Keator  just  before 
the  meeting  of  the  elders  for  which  Mr.  Keator  had  now 
arranged  and  shyly  begged  that  he  might  be  taken  in  the 
lot  with  Dorothy  Velt. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  are  thinking  of  marriage,  Con 
rad,"  Mr.  Keator  said,  kindly.  "  It  is  a  great  rock  of 
safety  for  a  minister."  Conrad,  keeping  his  face  averted, 
and  rolling  between  his  teeth  a  grain  of  wheat  which  he 
had  found  an  immense  aid  in  the  interview,  answered, 

"Yes,  I  should  guess  so.  Sister  Dorothy  is  a  good  girl 
and  a  proper  housekeeper,  I  should  suppose.  I  have 
noticed  when  she  came  to  the  sprechens — but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  I  wouldn't  go  for  to  choose  any 
one  especial — but  the  ministers  see  more  of  the  sisters 
than  the  brethren,  and — well,  she's  a  sweet  creature  !  " 

At  this  innocent  burst  of  admiration,  Conrad  blushed 
and  Mr.  Keator  assured  him  that  he  would  propose  his 
name. 

"  But,"  he  added,  "  you  must  not  be  disappointed  if 
the  lot  decides  against  you.  You  will  submit  to  the 
Lord's  will,  and  even  if  the  response  should  be  favorable, 
you  know,  as  a  minister — for  I  shall  want  to  see  you 
ordained  soon  now,  Conrad — your  marriage  will  need  the 
sanction  of  the  Conference  of  the  Elders'  Unity.  God 
grant  that  you  may  be  blessed  in  your  love,  and  that 
if  you  must  sacrifice  it,  you  may  be  given  the  strength," 
said  Mr.  Keator. 

Mr.  Keator  was  haunted  by  one  purpose  ;  pursued  by 
Constance's  demand  that  he  submit  this  question,  which 
had  become  the  question  of  his  life,  to  the  lot.  In  the 
labyrinth  in  which  he  groped  this  path  at  least  was  clear, 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT  329 

and  he  followed  it  with  the  desperate  tenacity  of  the  mad 
man  who  knows  his  one  bit  of  knowledge  so  well.  He  did 
not  look  forward  beyond  the  awful  decision.  He  did  not 
dare.  If  he  considered  a  moment,  in  the  forlorn  strait  to 
which  he  had  come,  he  was  certain  that  he  should  not  go 
on.  He  clung  to  the  letter  of  Constance's  demand.  That, 
at  least,  he  could  satisfy,  and  he  went  on  about  the  prep 
arations  for  carrying  out  her  wish,  finding  a  kind  of  salve 
to  his  conscience  in  the  blessed  sense  of  irresponsibility. 
Of  his  own  motion  he  could  never  have  done  the  thing 
for  which  he  now  carefully  laid  the  train. 

Several  missionaries,  as  their  wont  was,  had  written 
him  to  provide  wives  for  them  at  the  first  meeting  of  the 
Conference,  and  there  were  besides  two  young  men  in 
the  settlement  who  had  reached  the  marriageable  age  and 
were  desirous  of  such  partners  as  the  lot  might  appoint 
to  them.  In_  the  proper  exercise  of  his  power  the 
minister  had  called  a  meeting  of  the  Conference  for  the 
purpose  of  satisfying  these  wishes.  Of  his  own  deter 
mination  he  said  nothing. 

On  Thursday  morning  the  elders  began  to  gather,  in 
response  to  this  summons,  in  the  room  at  the  rear  of  the 
church  used  for  their  deliberations.  It  was  an  apartment 
much  employed  by  Mr.  Keator  in  his  own  work,  and  in 
Summer  it  became  his  study,  and  he  wrote  all  his  sermons 
in  it.  The  light  flooded  it  through  many  generous 
windows,  so  deep  set  in  the  masonry,  that  the  heat 
abandoned  its  mission  before  it  reached  the  interior.  In 
the  Spring  the  lilac  and  syringa  bushes,  and  the  like 
simple  shrubs,  hung  their  fresh  flowers  in  at  the  open 
casements  ;  and  before  the  little  private  door,  through 
which  in  Summer  the  gentle  mountain  breeze  made  free  of 
the  room,  a  monster  horse-chestnut  from  year  to  year  sent 


33°  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

forth  its  trembling  shoots,  declared  itself  in  swollen  blos 
soms,  shadowed  the  wall  with  its  prodigal  foliage,  and 
finally  in  the  Autumn  sent  it  down  in  a  shower  for  the 
minister  to  tramp  through. 

The  room  was  very  dear  to  him  with  its  treasury  of 
associations  ;  and  as  he  looked  about  now  at  the  walls 
decorated  with  portraits  of  the  devoted  laborers  for  the 
Church  in  the  first  hard  years  of  its  life  in  America,  and 
at  the  long  shelves  burdened  with  memorials  of  their 
sufferings  and  conquests,  he  experienced  a  sudden  pang. 
The  hateful  sense  of  the  discordance  of  the  thing  he  was 
about  to  do  with  all  the  mild  virtue,  the  unpretending 
rigor,  the  scorn  of  wrong  which  the  precious  lives  of 
these  men  had  made  vocal  for  all  succeeding  generations 
of  the  Church's  ministers,  sent  a  sharp  pain  through  his 
heart.  Was  he  not  sworn  to  maintain  the  tradition  of 
their  stainless  purity  ? 

The  pure,  benignant  visage  of  Count  Zinzendorf,  the 
founder  of  the  Church,  looked  down  at  him  out  of  one  of 
the  frames.  It  seemed  to  the  minister's  guilty  fancy  that 
a  reproof  contracted  his  open  forehead.  The  firm  lips, 
with  their  trace  of  sternness,  appeared  about  to  rebuke 
him  for  the  dishonor  he  was  about  to  bring  upon  himself 
and  the  Church. 

Mr.  Keator  turned  away  uneasily,  and  from  his 
removed  seat  watched  the  gathering  of  the  elders.  Was 
it  possible  that  on  the  morrow  he  might  have  lost  the 
right  to  sit  among  these  good  men,  that  his  office  of  guide 
and  counsellor  might  be  filled  by  another,  that  another 
might  make  his  own  the  associations  that  had  so  long 
been  dearly  his,  that  he  might  sit  in  this  room  composing 
admonitions  to  his  flock  and  taking  the  scent  of  the  lilac 
and  syringa  in  the  early  Spring  ?  He  looked  at  Count 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  331 

Zinzendorf  again  ;  he  seemed  to  smile  upon  him  encour 
agingly.  He  glanced  at  the  elders  ;  but  he  did  not  need 
to  look  long.  He  knew  how  pitiless  they  could  be.  It 
was  the  crucial  moment — the  one  reasonable  moment  at 
which  he  might  have  turned  back. 

But  a  suggestion  of  the  devil  insinuated  itself.  She  had 
deceived  him.  She  had  wantonly  broken  her  pledge — a 
pledge  of  whose  value  to  him  she  best  knew.  The  whis 
perings  of  forgiveness,  of  self-denial,  which  came  to  him 
from  habit,  he  put  impatiently  away.  What  was  the 
residuum  of  good  in  the  world  to  him  since  she  was  false  ? 
Should  he  be  merciful  ?  Had  she  spared  him  ?  Had  she 
not  herself  urged  him  to  what  he  was  about  to  do  ?  It 
should  mercilessly  rebound  upon  her.  But  in  the 
righteous  wrath  which  suddenly  possessed  him  he  would 
not  suffer  her  to  accomplish  this  act  of  which  he  had  for 
the  first  time  a  full,  reckless  perception  of  the  wickedness. 
He  would  do  it — he  alone  :  John  Keator — and  because 
he  wished  to  do  it,  not  because  she  commanded  it. 

The  eldress  of  the  Single  Sisters  came  in  at  length 
with  her  list,  and  all  was  ready.  Mr.  Keator  motioned 
for  silence,  and  forced  himself  to  kneel  down  and  pray 
for  a  benediction  upon  the  decision  of  the  solemn  ques 
tions  they  were  about  to  ask  by  the  lot.  Nothing  had 
ever  seemed  to  him  so  much  like  profanity  ;  but,  as  he 
went  on,  the  real  anguish  which  lay  beneath  any  sense 
of  the  situation  he  could  pretend  to  himself,  translated 
itself  in  an  honest  fervor  of  petition.  As  he  knelt  there 
among  all  the  officers  of  the  Church,  there  came  over  him 
with  smiting  force  a  feeling  of  the  tremendous  conse 
quence  of  the  result  ;  and  he  prayed  for  the  watchful 
providence  of  God  with  his  whole  soul,  and  as  he  had 
never  prayed  before. 


332  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

He  rose  with  a  calmness  in  his  heart,  that  he  had  not 
known  since  he  had  listened  to  the  -wandering  sugges 
tions  of  the  dying  man  at  Little  Slab  Hollow.  He  had 
the  feeling,  in  which  the  weakness  of  humanity  always 
finds  comfort,  of  having  transferred  the  responsibility. 
He  would,  indeed,  ask  for  the  trial  of  the  lot  for  himself. 
But  he  left  the  result  with  God. 

The  eldress  came  over  and  showed  him  her  list.  Upon 
it  were  the  names  of  a  dozen  members  of  the  Single 
Sisters'  Choir.  Mr.  Keator  proposed  the  first  upon  the 
list,  Benigna  Gardenhauer,  for  the  missionary  who  had 
sent  from  Greenland  for  a  wife.  The  lot  indicated  that 
she  was  not  acceptable.  The  minister  who  was  willing 
to  leave  this  delicate  question  to  such  an  arbitrament, 
was  of  middle  age  and  had  already  been  married  ;  it  was 
therefore  thought  best  to  select  one  of  the  more  sedate 
sisters  for  the  second  challenge  of  the  lot  in  his  interest. 
Caroline  Riddlemoser  was  therefore  taken  in  the  lot 
for  Brother  Fiedler.  The  decision  was  affirmative. 

The  other  missionary,  who  was  ministering  among  the 
native  Indians  in  Ohio,  was  furnished  with  a  spouse  by 
the  same  simple  and  certain  plan,  and  then  Mr.  Keator 
named  two  brothers  in  the  settlement.  These  had  each 
a  choice,  and  the  lot  was  first  tried  for  the  young  women 
of  their  own  selection.  Upon  the  desire  of  one  the  lot 
smiled,  but  the  wish  of  the  other  was  denied  to  him,  and 
Mr.  Keator  had  recourse  again  to  the  eldress's  list,  upon 
which  he  presently  found  the  name  of  a  young  woman 
to  whom  the  lot  assented. 

Mr.  Keator  sat,  while  Conrad's  name  was  proposed, 
with  his  head  in  his  hands,  meditating  nervously  upon 
the  announcement  that  he  was  next  to  make.  He  said  to 
himself  that  there  was  still  time  to  draw  back.  Without 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  333 

the  sanction  of  his  voice  none  of  the  brethren  before  him 
could  be  brought  to  believe  that  he  had  indulged  such  an 
intention.  But  an  excess  of  the  old  feeling  of  proud 
resentment  seized  him.  The  "  Yes  "  in  answer  to  Con 
rad's  question  was  pronounced,  and  Mr.  Keator  felt 
satisfaction  in  the  result.  He  bade  farewell  to  it  as  his 
last  innocent  thought,  and  rose  hastily,  his  face  set  with 
determination.  His  fixed  eyes  beamed  with  the  light  of 
his  resolve.  The  elders  and  eldress  slowly  rose  to  go. 

Mr.  Keator  cleared  his  throat.  One  or  two  looked 
about  at  him. 

"  One  moment,  if  you  please  ;  there  is  something  else," 
he  said,  firmly. 

The  moving  company  was  instantly  silent,  and  turned 
toward  him  with  curiosity. 

"  There  is  another  marriage  to  be  decided,"  he  told 
them,  in  the  hard,  dry  tones  which  had  replaced  his 
gentle  voice. 

They  came  back  slowly  to  their  seats.  He  wound  his 
fingers  about  his  crutch  while  he  waited  for  them  to 
dispose  themselves  upon  the  chairs.  His  mood  seemed 
to  oppress  and  half  awe  them,  for  they  sat  down  in 
wondering  silence.  The  tremor  which  had  affected  him 
when  he  began  had  left  him,  and  he  had  never  been  more 
calm  than  when  he  faced  them  at  length. 

"  It  is  my  own  marriage,"  he  said,  briefly. 

A  hesitant  murmur  of  pleasure  ran  about  the  little 
assembly.  Then  Elder  Weiss's  "  I'm  sure  we  are  very 
glad,"  broke  the  heavy  silence. 

"  It  is  to  Sister  Constance  Van  Cleef,"  pursued  the 
minister. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  cast  a  grenade  among  them.  He 
confronted  their  bewildered  faces  and  knitted  brows 


334  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

with  a  hard,  unyielding  glance.  For  a  moment  his  look 
beat  down  all  opposition.  But  almost  immediately  Elder 
Weiss  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  triumph, 

"  She  is  not  a  sister  !  " 

"  Who  degraded  her  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Keator. 

The  elder  hesitated  and  looked  about  him.  The 
glances  of  the  brethren  unconsciously  supported  him,  and 
seemed  to  make  him  their  spokesman. 

"  You  did,  in  the  church,"  he  -answered,  doggedly. 

"  Say  rather  you,  Elder  Weiss." 

Mr.  Keator  had  always  felt  aggrieved  by  the  man 
ner  of  Elder  Weiss's  reproof.  But  he  had  hitherto 
opposed  to  this  the  feeling  that  he  had  asked  him  to  do 
a  disagreeable  thing  for  him,  and  that  to  complain  that 
he  had  done  it  would  be  ungracious.  That  it  had  been 
a  brutal  speech,  however,  always  remained  ;  and  Elder 
Weiss's  casting  of  the  odious  burden  upon  him  was,  in 
consideration  of  all  the  circumstances,  scarcely  tolerable. 
The  minister  remembered,  with  sudden  energy,  what  that 
speech  had  cost  him,  and  he  let  his  wrath  pour  itself  forth. 

"  Do  you  fancy,"  he  asked,  "  that  I  should  have  rebuked 
her  as  if  she  were  a  criminal  ?  Do  you  dare  suppose 
that  I  could  have  made  such  an  unfeeling  speech  ? " 

Elder  Weiss  regarded  the  wall  interestedly  ;  the  other 
elders  and  the  prim  little  eldress  watched  the  minister 
in  a  kind  of  dumb  horror.  Mr.  Keator  paused  an  instant 
to  control  himself.  He  was  fearful  of  going  too  far,  and 
he  meant  only  to  be  just. 

"  I  shall  ask  you,  Brother  Weiss,"  he  said,  "  to  tell  me 
whose  prerogative  you  suppose  it  to  be  to  dismiss  from 
the  Church  ?  " 

The  elder  was  silent,  and  at  last  portly  Brother  Berg, 
looking  about  for  countenance,  murmured:  "  I  should 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  335 

suppose  it  was  the  minister's,  with  proper  consultation 
with  the  elders." 

"  Surely,"  assented  Mr.  Keator,  glancing  command- 
ingly  down  upon  them  from  where  he  stood.  "  If  I  read 
the  canons  of  the  Church  aright,  it  is  only  your  pastor 
who  had  the  right  to  banish  Sister  Constance  Van  Cleef 
from  the  Sisterhood  to  whose  precious  privileges  she 
had  been  admitted.  I  assure  all  of  you  that  I  have  not 
used  that  right,  and  I  ask  as  a  minister  of  the  Church  to 
be  taken  in  the  lot  with  one  of  its  members." 

"  The  Conference  of  the  Elders'  Unity  will  not  consent," 
asserted  Elder  Weiss,  with  conviction. 

Mr.  Keator  paid  no  attention  to  this. 

"  Are  the  brethren  ready  ?  "  he  asked,  quietly,  but  his 
heart  began  a  riotous  beating. 

Elder  Berg  looked  at  Elder  Englehardt. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  latter,  reluctantly. 

They  were  a  long  time  fumbling  about  the  lots.  Mr. 
Keator  began  to  feel  the  reaction  setting  in.  He 
could  face  this  company  of  sullen  opponents  ;  he  could 
condemn  himself  before  them  to  resign  the  pastorate  in 
which  he  had  so  long  kept  their  love  and  confidence,  he 
could  carry  his  ruin  proudly  out  as  if  it  were  a  triumph  ; 
but  he  was  not  strong  enough  to  confront  the  terrible 
balance  of  fates,  now  in  process  of  decision.  He  sank  into 
a  chair  with  his  back  to  the  whole  gathering,  and  stared 
wistfully,  tremulously  out  of  the  window  at  the  bare  lilac 
and  syringa  bushes. 

It  seemed  a  century,  and  he  listened  in  an  anguish 
beyond  anything  that  he  had  ever  known  to  their  hurried, 
whispered  conference,  their  deliberate  movements  about 
the  room,  their  clumsy  fingering  of  the  lots,  which  he 

seemed  almost  to  hear  rustle  in  their  fingers. 
22 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

At  last  he  heard  a  sudden  stir  and  an  exclamation. 
He  did  not  look  about.  Then  they  seemed  slowly  to 
leave  the  room.  He  held  himself  in  his  chair  as  they 
filed  solemnly  out,  one  by  one.  When  the  room  at  length 
appeared  empty  he  caught  the  sound  of  a  shuffling  step 
behind  him,  and  Brother  Berg  touched  his  arm.  Mr. 
Keator  looked  up  with  an  agony  of  question  in  his  face. 

The  elder,  whose  constant  smile  had  fled,  as  it  seemed, 
permanently,  handed  him  a  slip  of  paper  with  a  single 
word  upon  it. 

The  letters  seemed  to  burn  their  way  into  Mr.  Kea- 
tor's  consciousness. 

"  Yes." 

The  minister  flung  himself  forward. 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  "  he  cried. 

Brother  Berg  looked  at  him  with  a  great  pity  in  his 
eyes.  But  he  turned  doubtfully  away.  Then  suddenly 
he  came  back  and  put  forth  his  hand.  Mr.  Keator 
perhaps  felt  it  beside  him,  for  in  his  misery  he  stretched 
out  his  own  without  lifting  his  head.  Brother  Berg 
clasped  it  with  honest  warmth  ;  and  went  precipitately 
from  the  room.  The  minister  crouched  forward,  alone 
with  his  conscience  and  his  God. 


•••  .  ,    ..    .."•..-.•  •    , 

^.-c-^-''',:^^^^:^'::^--'^-':-^^::Z,l^'  •  ?'4>---':»V' •  \  •  • 
'•'•^''•'^s^i&^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^M^ 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  knowledge  of  all  that  he  had  kept  from  her  must 
have  been  interpreted  in  his  face  when  he  met  Rose,  for 
her  look  of  tender  solicitude  melted  into  a  kind  of 
diffident  reproach. 

"  Yes,  I  have  done  it,"  he  said,  bitterly,  in  answer  to 
her  glance. 

He  sank  into  his  deep  library  chair  with  his  face  full 
of  a  fixed  gloom. 

Rose  observed  him  with  a  pain  deeper  than  she  could 
say. 

"  O,  John,  John,  how  could  you  !  "  she  whispered,  as 
she  dropped  down  beside  him. 

"  You  remember  what  you  said,"  he  rejoined,  coldly. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Rose,  though  her  tears,  "  but  I  can't. 
How  could  I  despise  you  when  now,  above  all,  you  need 
my  help  and  love.  And  perhaps  you  do  not  deserve 
that  I  should,  John,"  she  said  softly,  drying  her  eyes. 
"  No,  it  can't  be.  It  is  your  modesty  again,  your  readi 
ness  to  condemn  yourself." 

"  Do  you  think  those  are  words  for  my  acts  ?  I  de 
manded  the  fulfillment  of  her  promise." 

"  Brother  !  "  she  cried. 

She  withdrew  herself  swiftly  ;  but  as  quickly  touched 
him  to  whisper, 

"  Think  of  your  provocation,  John  ;  you  are  noble  and 
good,  but  how  could  any  one  be  good  enough  for  that  ? 
No,  no  !  it's  impossible  !  She  tempted  you  too  far." 


338  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  Look  at  it  in  that  way  if  you  can,  sister.  Perhaps  I 
had  some  excuse." 

"  Some  !  You  had  every  excuse.  I  never  dreamed  of 
such  a  contingency  when  I  talked  of  your  failing.  Do  ! 
What  else  could  you  do  ?  What  could  any  one  do  ?  It 
was  the  only  thing." 

"  But  it  was  not  the  priestly  thing.  Oh,  Rose  dear, 
other  men  may  be  governed  by  men's  standards,  but  the 
standards  of  a  minister  of  Christ  can  come  only  from  the 
Head  and  Founder  of  his  order." 

Rose  was  silent. 

"  Is  there  anything  else  ? "  she  asked,  gently,  at  last. 

"  Everything  !  After  I  had  made  my  demand  of  her 
I  felt  a  horror  of  what  I  had  done.  I  attempted  to  retract 
it." 

"  Of  course  !  Of  course  !  Oh,  John,  don't  let  us  talk 
of  your  failure.  Who  else  would  have  done  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  dear,  but  it  was  poor  reparation  and 
she  would  not  take  it." 

"  Would  not  take  it  ? "  repeated  Rose,  in  surprise. 
Then  suddenly  :  "  John,  doesn't  that  prove  what  I  have 
always  said  ?  She  loves  you." 

A  pitiful  smile  flitted  over  the  minister's  face. 

"  Nay,  she  is  proud,  exquisitely  proud.  That  is  all. 
And  then  she  said  I  must  decide  it  by  the  lot,  as  we  had 
agreed." 

Rose's  lips  quivered. 

"  And  you  have  done  it  ?     Oh,  John  !  John  !  " 

"  You  may  well  reproach  me.  I  did  it  deliberately — in 
the  face  of  the  elders." 

He  pressed  his  head  into  his  hands. 

Rose  looked  up  with  a  brave  smile.  "  She  forced  you 
to  it,"  she  said. 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  339 

"  No,  no  •  don't  show  me  the  way  to  such  wretched 
shifting  as  that.  I  did  it — I  alone.  I  am  willing  to 
suffer  for  it." 

Rose  cast  her  head  upon  his  knees.  When  she  raised 
it,  it  was  to  ask  him  fearfully, 

"  The  answer,  John  !     What  was  the  answer  ?  " 

He  gazed  into  her  gentle  eyes  a  moment,  in  thought. 

" '  Yes,'  "  he  said,  at  last,  simply. 

She  regarded  him  for  a  moment  in  a  daze. 

"  You  must  leave  the  Church  to  marry  her,"  she  said, 
her  face  full  of  sorrow. 

Mr.  Keator  started  up.  As  he  leaned  upon  his  crutch, 
he  glanced  down  upon  her  kneeling  by  the  chair,  with  a 
grieving  look. 

"  Marry  her  ?  "  exclaimed  he.  "  No,  no.  You  are 
confused  by  the  propitiousness  of  it,  dear." 

Rose  was  about  to  speak  ;  but  he  continued,  "  Yes,  I 
was  tempted.  Was  that  what  you  were  going  to  say.  It 
is  true  that  when  the  lot  said  '  Yes'  a  bitter  temptation 
had  its  will  with  me.  But  you  can  not  think  I  could  yield 
to  it  at  last.  Have  I  fallen  so  far  that  you  have  no  better 
thought  for  me  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me  !  "  she  begged. 

"  Nay,  you  were  right.  How  can  I  expect  you  to  keep 
high  theories  for  my  low  practices."  She  made  a  depreca 
tory  murmur,  but  he  went  on.  "  Ah,  my  one  wrong  puts 
me  at  odds  with  the  whole  frame  of  things  !  "  exclaimed 
he,  bitterly. 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"  I  have  gone  very  far,  dear,  but  even  to  me  some 
things  are  still  impossible.  That,  I  am  sure,  is  one  of 
them.  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  have  a  peaceful  hour  ? 
Do  you  think  life  with  her  would  be  worth  anything, 


34°  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

stained  by  the  thought  of  what  it  had  cost  ?  Your  trust 
in  me  is  dearer  to  me  than  that ;  my  self-respect  has  more 
value.  An  ability  to  one  day  face  my  Maker  is  infinitely 
more  precious  than  all  the  happiness  I  might  hope  to  find 
in  such  an  unblessed  union." 

Rose  tried  to  speak,  but  he  raised  her  up,  with  a  far 
away  look  in  his  eyes  and  went  quickly  on. 

"At  first  the  temptation  shone  upon  me  in  a  glory  for 
which  I  was  not  strong  enough.  But  the  still  voice  drew 
me  back  instantly.  It  was  like  looking  over  a  precipice 
for  the  fascination  of  it ;  it  was  not,  thank  heaven,  even 
for  a  moment  a  real  intention.  I  saw  then ! "  ex 
claimed  he,  as  he  threw  back  his  head.  There  was  the 
light  of  a  great  joy  in  his  eyes.  "  Rose,  dear,  don't  you 
see  ? " 

"  I  see  your  goodness,  John." 

"  The  hand  of  Providence  is  in  it  all,"  declared  he, 
with  solemn  gratitude.  "  Don't  you  understand,  Rose  ? 
God  will  not  see  my  life-work  for  Him  discredited  by  my 
personal  failure — He  will  not  see  it  come  to  naught  be 
cause  His  weak  human  agent  t  has  not  been  worthy. 
Through  my  sin  He  leads  me  out  to  a  deeper  knowledge 
of  myself  and  Him,  and  a  richer  power  of  labor  in  His 
cause.  In  His  infinite  mercy  He  gives  me  another  oppor 
tunity." 

The  minister  paused  with  a  deep  inspiration. 

"  Oh,  Rose,"  he  went  on  with  the  impetus  of  his  rap 
ture,  "  do  you  not  see  what  a  ruin  all  my  future  must 
have  been  if  the  word  of  the  lot  had  been  '  No  ? '  Do 
you  not  see  that  it  would  seem  to  have  baulked  my  wicked 
desire  ?  I  should  have  lost  the  inestimable  privilege  of 
refusing  the  good  securely  within  my  reach.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  happy  it  has  made  me.  It  puts  the  whole  mat- 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  341 

ter  upon  the  footing  of  the  original  trial.  It  rehabili 
tates  my  self-respect.  It  enables  me  to  look  up,  to  be  a 
man  among  men." 

He  seemed  borne  along  on  the  splendid  reaches  of  his 
imagination.  His  buoyant  fancy  had  reconstructed  for 
him  in  a  moment  his  whole  life.  He  looked  into  the 
future  with  gladdened  eyes. 

A  joyous  light  dawned  upon  Rose's  face.  She  flung 
her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"  I  have  my  brother  back  again,"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MARCH  was  sitting  Saturday  morning  in  the  room  in 
which  he  had  learned  of  the  blind  arbitrament  that  was  to 
decide  the  future  of  three  lives.  Constance  sat  near  him 
sewing,  an  occupation  in  which  she  endeavored  to  find 
relief  for  her  overburdened  thoughts.  From  time  to 
time  they  spoke  wanderingly  of  the  event  which  so  nearly 
concerned  them  ;  but  their  interest  was  too  deep  for  con 
versation  upon  that  subject.  Occasionally  March  got  up 
and  went  to  the  window,  from  which  he  cast  his  eye 
rather  wearily  over  the  landscape  as  if  he  expected  to  see 
something  start  up  out  of  it.  Once  he  saw  a  rabbit  break 
covert  and  leap  for  a  moment  over  the  snow  ;  a  chipmunk 
came  out  of  the  stone  wall  and  ran  gaily  along  that  rug 
ged  highway. 

They  were  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  mail,  for  which 
the  servant  had  been  sent  into  town  as  usual. 

"  Owen,  I  heard  something  very  pleasant  yesterday," 
said  Constance,  as  he  turned  away  from  the  window,  and 
came  back  to  her  side.  "  Jacinth  has  agreed  to  marry 
Mr.  Lincoln.  I  have  hoped  for  it  ever  since  I  made 
them  known  to  each  other  and  perceived  his  interest  in 
her.  But  I  haven't  dared  believe  it  possible.  It  is  hard 
to  guess  Jacinth's  feelings  about  anything,  she  says  so 
little,  and  I  was  afraid  she  wouldn't  see  that  Mr.  Lincoln 
was  the  man  of  all  men  she  ought  to  like,  because  to  a 
casual  observer  he  must  seem  the  last  man  fitted  for 
her." 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  343 

"  She  has  evidently  observed  him  more  than  casually," 
returned  March,  "  and  has  been  gifted,  if  only  for  a 
moment,  with  your  wonderful  insight."  His  tone  was 
less  light  hearted  than  his  speech,  and  he  rose  restlessly 
and  walked  over  to  the  window  to  take  an  anxious  look 
down  the  road  along  which  the  man  would  come  with  the 
mail. 

"  You  are  glad  for  Mr.  Lincoln,  Owen  ?  "  rejoined  Con 
stance,  inquiringly. 

"  Heartily,  dearest,  heartily  !  "  exclaimed  March,  turn 
ing  from  the  window  and  coming  quickly  over  to  her. 
"  Don't  think  I  don't  sympathize  with  your  pleasure  in 
the  arrangement,  because  of  my  lame  raillery.  Nothing 
could  be  better.  Only  I'm  not  in  a  mood  to  rejoice 
about  anything — even  in  my  friend's  happiness  in  his  love, 
selfish  fellow  that  I  am  !  "  he  ended,  looking  down  into 
her  eyes,  as  he  took  her  hands  with  a  doubtful  smile. 

"  We  should  be  glad  that  every  one  is  not  so  unfortun 
ate  as  we  in  their — their  affairs,"  said  she. 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,"  cried  March,  "  we  should  be.  And  we 
are  !  Glad  ?  We  are  riotously  glad  !  Observe  our  joy  !  " 
His  nervous  laugh  struck  harshly  upon  Constance.  She 
turned  away  to  hide  her  tears — tears  for  his  wretchedness 
and  hers. 

But  March  at  the  moment  caught  sight  through  the  win 
dow  of  the  man  with  the  mail  pouch,  and  going  quickly 
out  he  took  the  bag  from  him.  He  brought  it  in  and 
dropped  it  in  her  lap  with  a  wistful  smile.  Then  he  sat 
down  and  ran  his  hand  nervously  through  his  hair. 

Constance  took  up  the  pouch  eagerly. 

"  The  key,  Owen  !  "  she  murmured,  helplessly. 

She  pushed  her  hand  swiftly  through  her  work  basket. 
March  suppressed  an  exclamation  as  she  looked  uncer- 


344  A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

tainly  about  her.  She  put  down  her  work  and  went  over 
to  the  mantel.  As  her  fingers  touched  the  bit  of  metal 
she  gave  a  low  note  of  pleasure. 

They  opened  the  pouch  fumblingly  together.  There 
seemed  an  unusually  large  mail.  The  letter  they  sought 
was  among  the  last. 

"  Tear  it,  dear  !  "  cried  March,  as  she  took  up  her  pen 
knife. 

But  she  was  willing  to  postpone  the  knowledge  before 
which  she  began  to  tremble,  and,  as  was  her  custom,  cut 
the  seal. 

"  You  hold  our  fate  in  your  hands,"  said  March,  in  a 
low  voice,  as  she  balanced  the  unopened  letter. 

She  unfolded  the  paper.  The  writing  on  it  appeared 
brief. 

"  The  lot  has  been  taken,"  she  read.  "  The  word  was 
—'Yes.'" 

March  started  up  in  anguish. 

"  Listen,  dear  !  "  exclaimed  Constance,  softly  :  "  '  Need 
I  tell  you  that  nothing  in  my  life  has  ever  given  me  so 
much  happiness  ? ' ' 

March  gave  a  low  cry  of  rage  and  clenched  his  hands. 

Constance  read  on  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  read  it,  Owen  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  look  of  be 
wildered  joy  in  her  face.  "  I  can't !  " 

He  took  it  from  her.  This  is  what  he  read  : 
"  It  enables  me  to  refuse  the  infinite  happiness  it  offers 
me.  You  can  understand  how  this  replaces  the  trial 
which  your  generosity  gave  me;  and  suffers  me  to 
conquer  the  bitterest  temptation  I  have  known.  I  can  not 
too  deeply  thank  you  for  forcing  it  upon  me.  Bless  you, 
my  sweet  girl  !  It  has  restored  me  to  myself.  You  once 
wisely  refused  to  let  me  give  you  up,  but  you  will  permit 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  345 

it,  I  am  sure,  now,  and  help  me  to  bind  fast  my  poor 
surrender  by  uniting  you,  when  the  time  comes,  to  Mr. 
March." 

"  How  brave  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  slipped  into  his 
waiting  arms. 

For  a  moment  they  silently  tasted  their  bliss  ;  the  new, 
sweet  sense  of  security  was  too  precious  to  be  touched 
even  by  the  grateful  memory  of  Mr.  Keator.  But  they 
came  back  to  it  almost  immediately,  and  Constance  said, 

"  How  could  such  a  man  even  seem  to  fail  ?  I  couldn't 
understand  it  when  he  came  to  me  with  his  request — in 
the  very  act  of  his  apparent  fall.  I  understand  it  less 
than  ever." 

"  How  does  he  know  about  us  ? "  asked  March 
reasonably. 

"  Owen,"  she  cried,  with  conviction,  "  that  is  it  !  "  She 
started  away  from  him.  "  Only  to  think  of  my  not 
seeing  that  !  " 

"What,  dear?" 

"  That  in  some  way  he  has  mistaken  our  relation  for  a 
betrothal,  and  found  that  a  treason  in  me.  Poor  Mr. 
Keator  !  If  he  fancied  that,  what  might  he  not  have 
done  !  What  had  I  not  given  him  the  right  to  do  ?  It  was  a 
fine  restraint  in  him  to  go  no  further.  And  I  have  been 
ignorantly  blaming  him  !  Oh,  I  can't  be  too  glad,  Owen, 
that  he  has  made  this  last,  final  sacrifice  in  the  face  of 
that,  not  having  learned  the  truth." 

"  It  gives  it  a  great  dignity,"  said  March,  simply. 

"  Does  it  not  ?  A  dignity  to  which  the  best  triumph  he 
might  have  won  over  his  first  temptation  would  be  slight. 
Who  is  better  than  Mr.  Keator,  Owen  ? " 

He  smiled  in  her  face. 

"  Not  I,  darling.  I  shall  always  feel  my  great  responsi- 


346  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

bility — remembering  that  you  might  have  been  the  wife 
of  such  a  man." 

A  month  later  they  were  married.  The  rare  tears 
were  in  Constance's  eyes  from  many  causes  as  she  went 
up  the  aisle  upon  Mr.  Echols's  arm.  It  was  of  her  father 
that  she  was  especially  thinking  ;  she  believed  that  he 
would  be  .  glad  to  see  her  walking  toward  the  stalwart 
figure  she  mistily  saw  through  her  suffused  eyes.  But 
no  tears  were  visible  as  Mr.  Keator  stooped  over,  when 
he  had  married  them  by  the  Moravian  ritual,  and  rever 
ently  kissed  her. 

It  was  afterward,  when  she  attempted  to  tell  him  of  his 
error  and  to  thank  him  for  the  abnegation  which  had 
made  her  happiness  possible,  that  she  found  cause  to 
weep.  But  it  was  for  joy. 

Constance's  experience  had  come  to  her  at  last,  as 
it  comes  best  and  most  richly  to  all  women.  It  was 
strangely  simple.  In  the  old  days  when  she  had  longed 
for  it  her  imagination  had  not  looked  forward  to  a  thing 
of  so  every-day  a  quality  as  wedded  happiness.  But,  to  her 
understanding  eyes,  every-dayness  finally  seemed  not  the 
least  good  thing  in  the  world,  if  it  was  every-day  content: 
and  she  was  done  forever  with  the  superstition  of  that 
other  day,  to  come  illuminatingly  into  an  early  future 
and  be  somehow  a  finer  and  larger  day  then  ever  was, 
for  the  reason  that  she  had  learned  to  find  a  sufficing 
joy  in  each  day  as  it  passed. 

She  was  never  less  than  the  alert,  sensitive  spirit  that 
had  won  March  in  the  old  garden  at  Judea  ;  but  as  the 
little  world  of  which  she  was  securely  queen  revealed  its 
calm  joys  to  her,  she  was  in  every  way  gentled.  Love, 


A   VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  347 

which  had  wrought  this  in  her,  instructed,  as  well,  a  pride 
which  was  at  length  merely  the  dignity  that  became  Sir 
Owen  March's  wife.  Upon  her  husband  she  leaned  with  a 
dear  sense  of  security,  and  it  is  fair  to  record  that  March 
did  not  grow  less  worthy  of  her  devotion.  When  he 
succeeded  to  his  father's  title  he  did  not  relinquish  his 
theories  because  he  had  become  one  of  a  class  whom 
such  theories  could  not  profit.  On  the  contrary  he 
accepted  his  increased  power  for  good  to  others  as  a 
trust,  and  found  one  of  the  best  pleasures  of  his  life  in 
domesticating  upon  his  native  soil  the  effort  toward 
better  things  which  he  had  crossed  the  ocean  to  further. 
His  visit  to  America  in  failing  of  its  aim  had  enriched 
him  beyond  all  hope  in  making  Constance  known  to  him. 
And  was  she  not  now  by  his  side  to  help  forward  the 
very  work  in  which  they  had  labored  together  at  Gerrit? 
March  was  very  happy,  but  life  even  to  an  English  bar 
onet,  is,  of  course,  not  a  perfectly  smooth  and  kindly 
affair,  and  if  he  kept  to  the  end  his  obstinately  cheerful 
outlook,  it  was  not  because  he  was  ignorant  how  much 
of  pain  and  difficulty  must  enter  into  every  human  history. 
From  Mr.  Keator,  at  the  station  in  the  West  Indies, 
which  Constance  had  forced  him  to  accept,  they  seldom 
heard.  But  Rose,  who  complained  that  her  brother's 
refusal  to  share  his  work  with  her  left  her  idle  hours, 
wrote  more  frequently.  The  letters,  from  whichever 
they  came,  revivified  always  for  March  and  Constance 
memories  which  they  meant  never  to  lose  ;  and  sometimes 
when  it  was  Mr.  Keator  who  wrote  they  liked  to  make 
anew  to  each  other  the  acknowledgment  of  their 
debt  to  him.  The  story  of  his  sacrifice  had  been  re 
hearsed  between  them  as  often  as  the  story  of  their  love, 
but,  like  that,  it  was  endeared  by  familiarity. 


348  A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT. 

"  He  gave  us  to  each  other,"  Constance  was  saying,  as 
she  sat  next  her  husband  in  the  soft  English  twilight, 
and  looked  musingly  out  on  the  mellow  Devonshire 
landscape.  "  It  is  a  sacred  charge  to  remember  that. 
He  might  have  separated  us.  He  might  have  taken  his 
own  selfish  joy.  It  was  his  and  he  refused  it." 

"  It's  not  the  kind  of  debt  that  one  can  pay,"  said 
March,  briefly. 

"  No,  Owen  ;  but  it  is  better  so.  I  like  to  think  that 
there  is  one  man — besides  you,  of  course,  Owen,  who 
could  do  a  fine  thing  like  that,  a  thing  which  cost  him 
everything,  with  no  richer  reward  than  his  conscience 
may  bring  him.  That  is  why  he  has  always  been  so 
dear  to  me,  I  think — because  of  the  calm  strength  that 
was  so  solidly  related  to  the  suffering  of  the  world,  so 
finely,  almost  sadly  unrelated  to  everything  else  in  it. 
His  unconscious,  habitual  charity  and  self-denial  seemed 
always  to  point  the  way,  and  beckon  me.  But  more 
than  all  they  kept  before  me  the  certainty  that  there 
were  still  ideals — ideals  upon  which  I  could  always  draw. 
The  certainty  of  that  cheers  me  even  now,  Owen.  No 
distance  changes  it.  And,  though  we  never  see  him 
again,  so  long  as  he  lives  it  must  be  a  great  happiness 
to  know  that  somewhere  there  is  such  a  man." 

It  was  a  year  later  that  intelligence  reached  them  of 
an  occurrence  which  seemed  to  Constance  the  most 
grievous  that  she  had  ever  known.  Rose  wrote  them 
of  it — Rose,  who  was  even  then  on  her  way  to  Judea  to  lay 
her  brother's  body  away  in  the  larch-shaded  cemetery  on 
the  knoll,  and  who  presently  came  to  them  with  her 
immeasurable  grief. 

"  He  had  gone,"  ran  her  pitiful  letter,  "  in  a  surf-boat 


A    VICTORIOUS  DEFEAT.  349 

to  console  the  dying  moments  of  a  native,  who  in  health 
had  reviled  him  and  his  work.  The  sea  was  roughening 
when  he  set  out.  I  begged  him  not  to  go.  He  said  it 
was  his  duty.  I  knew  it  and  knew  that  if  it  was,  nothing 
could  hinder  his  going.  The  cruel  water,  which  has 
taken  him  from  me,  sent  a  foreboding  through  me.  But 
he  went.  He  went,  and  he  never  came  back.  For  a 
storm  rose  in  the  night,  and  when  we  looked  on  the 
beach  in  the  morning  the  boat  was  there  overturned, 
and  a  little  way  off — John,  cold,  silent,  with  his  face  to 
the  sky.  The  waves  which  had  slain  him  came  rippling 
about  his  head  as  if  they  had  done  no  wrong." 


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